As the philosophical phrase says, “Death is inevitable,” and now I find myself thinking deeply about it.

On the morning of March 8, 2026, my father passed away.

It was a Sunday morning, around six or seven, and it was filled with overwhelming emotions for me and my family. At that moment, it was raining, as if the sky itself was mourning with us. The pain was indescribable—an agony I had never felt before.

Meanwhile, we had to face the difficult reality of waiting for the funeral home services to take my father from the house, which my sister had already contacted. Minutes later, they arrived and took him away. At that moment, I could hardly understand what I was feeling. Everything seemed unreal. Everything felt suffocating.

I looked at my mother, whose tears continued to fall from her eyes—just like mine. Shortly after, the house grew unusually muted, as if it were holding its breath out of respect for the man who had shaped the lives of me and my siblings. Even a few hours after he was declared dead, the reality of it still felt distant.

Yet life had to continue in small, ordinary ways. I was sent to buy lunch from a fast-food restaurant because no one had the strength to cook at that time. In the midst of grief, there I was standing in line, waiting to order. It felt strange to be doing something so normal while my heart was so heavy. Even in moments of seemingly unfathomable sorrow, we still have to take care of the simplest needs.

While waiting for the food I ordered, I contacted some of my friends to share the sad news and keep myself occupied, hoping it would somehow ease the sharp ache in my chest. For a moment, those small conversations distracted me from the heaviness I carried, though the pain never definitely left.

Fast forward to now, as I write this, the silence that filled the place where we held the vigil still feels heavy. Sometimes words fail me when I try to describe the emptiness my father left behind. His absence appears in quiet moments. Grief, in its own cunning ways, finds paths into our thoughts and hearts when we least expect it.

In those moments, all we can do is breathe each breath slowly, learning to live with the weight of loss one moment at a time. Yet one thing remains certain: life does not pause for death, and we must learn to move forward while holding onto the memories and lessons he left behind.

To my Dading, you fought a good fight. No more pain.

I will always be your bunso, no matter what.

I love you.

(Jhon Steven C. Espenido, 25, writes from Surigao City.)