Daddy died yesterday at 5 pm.
He was a month and two days away from his 57th birthday.
Score 1 point for Cancer. Score one million points for Heaven.
I woke up this morning to the smell of hotdogs. Grilled, leftover hotdogs, to be exact.
“Why the hell does our room smell like hotdogs?” I demanded.
I had actually smelled something grilling in the middle of the night…but who would be grilling in the pouring rain at 3 a.m.?
An hour later, while at the gym, I began to smell hamburgers. Freshly grilled, juicy hamburgers, to be exact.
The fragrance was enough to make me want to eat a damn hamburger.
“Are people in ‘mourning’ allowed to want a hamburger?” I wondered.
Since Daddy is the first person I have ever lost, I don’t really know what I should be wanting or doing or thinking.
I thought I would wake up crying.
Instead, I woke up smelling food.
That sounds like something I’d do.
But now that I think about it, my Daddy always loved cookouts. I once confessed to my family that I liked eating hotdogs to which my Tio Ritchie replied:
“That’s the Carrasco in you.”
Apparently only The Carrasco Family likes hotdogs.
So watch out all you other hotdog lovers. We got this.
One thing I do know is that these feelings of loss create crazy thoughts, and I guess my crazy thought for today is that Heaven hosted a cookout for Daddy last night.
You know, to welcome him.
And then they had another this morning because, you know, Daddy likes cookouts.
My only hope is that Heaven also provided a sound system and mic because Daddy really likes to sing in front of crowds.
Long live Tury Bumper!