A moment burned into my brain. The bus back to NYC after a job interview that would change my life. 23. Anxious voices on the other end of the phone. Cancer. Options. It will be ok. Covering my head with my sweatshirt as I sobbed for the next hour since I knew it wouldn’t be. I knew the moment I got that phone call that we were going to lose him. Dad. My best friend.

One of the most tragic things in the world is when a good person is robbed of their time here.

After the diagnosis things moved fast. Only 8 more weeks together. A rollercoaster. Calls full of hope. New treatment options. Surgery. Calls full of despair. Spread too far. Inoperable. Get on the next flight home.

A profound sense of loss. Dad. The man who taught the shy little girl to go up to children on the playground and introduce herself. Told her to never be afraid of raising her hand in class. Whose last conversation with his priest was that he wasn’t afraid of death but wasn’t ready to stop being a father yet.

It’s been 11 years and it still hits me like a punch in the gut sometimes. A father daughter dance at a wedding can bring me to tears. Wanting to reach for the phone after a big promotion at work. Wishing you were sitting next to me when a stupid Clint Eastwood western comes on.

A stark reminder that life is short and not always fair. To make the most of every moment given us. And to try to be as kind and encouraging to others as you were.