dian

Remembering Papa

These are the moments, scents, and sounds from my daily routine that have eased me into remembering him. Each has triggered both a smile and uncontrollable tears that have helped me be OK with grief.

Most of these are centered on food, actually. We shared the same love for food and tendency to get crumbs all over ourselves.

I love you Pa. I think you knew that, but I wish I told you more often how proud I am to be your daughter. 

40 days later I’m missing you more than I ever imagined I could.

—

On my bookcase there’s a framed photo of us standing on the Dreamland beach, right where the tides break and hit the shore, and all you can see around us is sand, water and sky.  I see it every day when I walk to my closet, and it hurts a little less each time. But this is my favorite picture of us. We were at Tanah Lot, Bali, for my 20th birthday.

I miss getting excited about eating eggs with you. Especially telor mata sapi with kecap manis. 

I’m walking around downtown after a nail spa session with my girlfriends, and we pass by Sears Fine Food, Lori’s Diner and a crapton of other random spots where we liked to brunch on American food when you come to visit.

I stupidly leave my cellphone on the Caltrain because I was too engrossed in work when I realized I was about to miss my stop. All I can think of is that I haven’t uploaded a photo of our last meal together, when you had Chicken Mole (!) for the first time at the Velvet Cantina.

I’m reading through some of our partner’s content at work, and come across a Bon Appetit article about wagyu beef in a $5,000 bowl of pho. It conjured an image of you and Sam wolfing down wagyu beef nasi goreng at Pacific Place, blepotan on your shirt.

Reviewed a contract today, and the guy’s initials, on every single one of the 14 pages look, look a LOT like yours. I’m really glad I decided to use our Tjandra name in my signature, instead of my legal Rosanti.