On a day in late August 1977, my father passed away. He was the model of health; it happened suddenly. One moment, he was cooking in the kitchen of our family restaurant; the next moment, my mom took him to the hospital. He died that night. He didn’t just leave emptiness, as if he walked to the next room. He had presence; he left a vacuum in his wake. I was nine years old.
The family that remained was my mom and my two sisters, ages thirteen and seven. We had no actual family here in Puerto Rico, but friends flooded our home that day. They were effectively family; we even called them by the Chinese words for “aunt” and “uncle”. I had never seen so many of our friends together at once.