It was a dark and gloomy day, I peered outside of my window to the sight of the oak trees swaying harshly in the wind. I woke up that morning feeling a wave of sadness. I look down at my computer and my screen is filled with “Due at 11:59.”As I was doing my school work my thoughts were in a million places. Abo had been in the hospital for four days now without any phone calls. I had a bad gut feeling that whole morning. I decided to take a hot shower to get my mind off things. I wipe the fog off the mirror and force a smile to try to convince myself everything was fine. As I turn off the water, I hear the faint sound of sobbing. I walked downstairs to see it was my mother. My mother is a soft-spoken woman, a woman so gentle and soft yet I’d never seen her cry. I instantly knew something was terribly wrong. I quickly said a prayer as I made my way down the steps. The stairwell felt never-ending, getting longer and longer as I stepped towards my weeping mother.
“When is Abo coming home?” I whimpered.
She looked at me with the most heart-wrenching eyes and wept “Abo is not doing well right now, he’s on life support.”
My dad is a hardworking family man. My father grew up with nothing but the clothes he had on his back to his name. He was a lively spirit, who couldn’t stay in one place too long. A nomad, who lived life to the fullest.A man who told the craziest stories of back home that had you wondering if he was just making it all up.A man who sacrificed everything for his children so they could have a better life.A man who despite not having an education, was the smartest person I knew. A man who insisted on wearing a suit everywhere, even if we were only going to Mcdonalds. But most of all he is my Abo.
It was 12 pm now, the hospital called to advise my family to go visit my dad while he’s still here. I couldn’t go because I had covid at the time. I sat at home and all I could hear was ringing. The phone calls came in one after another, the next one worse than the one before. It was 2 am now, a call came in explaining how his previous health conditions mixed with the covid diagnoses were fatal. His organs were giving out rapidly. His lungs went out, followed by his heart. It truly was the worst feeling knowing my dad died alone in a cold hospital room surrounded by only four walls to comfort him, and I hadn’t even said goodbye.
I couldn’t help but remember that day vividly. My dad sat at the top of the steps in a plaid vest and the khaki pants he always wore. I looked at him and didn’t recognize his frail body, he was now as thin as a rake.
“Who is walking behind me?” Abo muttered.

I scurried to the bathroom because I didn’t want to see Abo in such pain. I watched as my sister grabbed his arm and helped him down the stairwell. I couldn’t help but notice the bright lights flashing from my driveway for what seemed like an eternity. Something was telling me to take notice of the ambulance number. It was ambulance number 31. It had a white stripe across it and it read “Columbus Fire Paramedics”. I watched as it pulled out of the driveway not knowing that was the last time I would see Abo.

As soon as I heard of the news I thought back to the last conversation Abo and I had about his sickness. My dad walked through the door from a doctor’s appointment, sat down on the couch, and fell into a deep trance. This was nothing like him at all. My dad was a man well out of his youth but still had the soul of a child. Even at 70 years old he would play soccer with us for hours in our backyard as sweat dropped off his shiny bald head. He was the type to laugh at serious situations but this time something was terribly off.

With a “Hello Abo?” he snapped out of his thoughts and looked up at me and my brother with a smile.

He and my brother had a long conversation while I was upstairs, I listened closely to try and make out what they were saying. My brother Abdullah is just like my dad, he never takes anything seriously.
“The doctor just told Abo he has six months to live and the first thing he decides to do is eat a bucket of KFC.” Abdullah jokes.
My heart dropped to my stomach.
Comfort is uncomfortable. Here we are sitting in the comfort of our living room discussing an uncomfortable situation. I ask my dad if this is true and he just laughs. I immediately started bawling my eyes out. Abo explains that it is a type of liver cancer and can be cured with a simple surgery.
Abo always says “Stop crying about things that occur in this world, the only thing that is promised to you is death.”