and Words
Every generation
Blames the one before
And all of their frustrations
Come beating on your door
I know that I’m a prisoner
To all my Father held so dear
I know that I’m a hostage
To all his hopes and fears
I just wish I could have told him in the living years
Lyric excerpts from Musixmatch.
It was an August morning in 1977 in Puerto Rico, my mom had called home from the hospital and my older sister answered the phone. My shell-shocked sister repeated my mom’s words verbatim, “Don’t tell the little ones that dad died.” This is the moment when I first found out my father had passed away. I was nine years old, and in that instant, my whole world tumbled.
My mom returned to our house shortly after. She barely exited the car before she collapsed in despair. Both of my parents were pillars of strength and today all of that flew out the window. My dad grew up very poor and became an apprentice in a kitchen in Hong Kong. He was an excellent chef, and he was an unofficial mentor to many. He was loved by many.