I remember that the day my father died I didn’t cry. I think of his absence in this world, and it feels unreal. I lay in bed admiring his picture and I think about the date. March 12, 2015. That’s the day I lost the most important person to me. The day everyone stopped listening, the day I lost my voice.

Age 6: I lay in bed with the worst cold I’ve ever had. My stomach feels like a turbulent storm, the contents rattling as a warning of last night’s dinner about to come right out. Every time I try to eat solid food, my stomach won’t keep it in. My sister Lilia and dad are worried about me, their faces twisted with concern. Lilia hands me some food again, though I’ve explained to her that I cannot eat the solids she is giving me. When she sees I am not even touching the food she tries to force feed me. I push the food away knowing what’s waiting for me if I were to eat it. My dad shifts from side to side, as if deciding on whether to do something or not. He soon makes up his mind and walks out of the room. As time passes I wonder where he went. When he comes back, he has a bowl of soup in his hands. He sets the bowl on the night stand by my bed and sits down with me to feed me like I’m a baby, but I don’t mind. The soup smells so delicious and I can’t help but wonder if he cooked it himself. As far as I remember he is not a cooker. He has never, not even once, cooked for anyone. Not even himself.

As the memories rush back to me, my chest tightens. The same questions circles my mind. How can he be gone?  I drop the picture on the bed and take out my cell phone. Scrolling through my gallery I find the video I recorded when I was younger. I hit play and wait for my dad  to appear. Everyone in the video laughs at some joke I didn’t understand at the time. The camera is then focused on my dad. My heart sinks as I realize I’ll never see that smile in person again.

Age 8: I lay in bed crying as silently as possible. I wish mom would come back from the US to at least celebrate my birthday with me. Suddenly, a loud, yet involuntary sobs escapes my mouth. I know she left  to make money to cover for all my needs, but I’d much rather live by her side. I hug the blue bunny she sent me, its torn ear ripping more everytime I hug it. Footsteps approach my door and I hear my dad's tough yet gentle voice.

“Are you alright in there, Eli?”

“Yes. I’m fine.” I answer back. Truth is, I am not alright, and he knows it.

After minutes pass, or maybe hours, I walk out of the room. As I walk in the living room I notice my favorite candies, snacks, and my favorite drink sitting on the table.

“I thought maybe, since you didn’t want to have a birthday party, we could watch some movies together. Whatever you choose works!” says my dad, sounding as enthusiastic as ever.

He doesn’t mention the earlier events, he knows that bringing it up would make the situation awkward. Instead, he hugs me tightly, making me feel safe in his arms. Suddenly, all my problems disappear and I am left with happiness in my heart.

I push back the memories. I regret not calling him everyday after I left Mexico to study here in the US, but I know he understands and he knows I love him with everything in me. I put away my phone and pick up his picture again. I know. I know that even though he is not there physically, he will always listen from above. He was always the only one that was there for me, the one that tried to make me feel better. The only one who ever listened and understood me without needing words. So, when he died my voice died with him. Even till this day, no one listens. No one cares.