There are days we prepare for, and then there are days that arrive carrying the weight of everything we are about to lose.
The day I said goodbye to my father was both.
I had imagined it in a thousand different ways—how it would feel to walk into that church, how I would hold myself together, how I would say goodbye to the man who had been my constant for as long as I had known what love was.
But nothing prepares you for the moment it becomes real.
For the quiet stillness.
For the finality.
For the sacred, unbearable knowing that this is the last time you will exist in the same world as them.
And yet, somehow, within that heartbreak… there was also something else.
Something holy.
Something eternal.
Something that felt like love refusing to end.
As I walked into the church, everything felt almost suspended in time. The soft light filtered through stained glass windows, casting colors that somehow seemed etherial. It was as if the world itself understood that something sacred was taking place within those walls.
I was immediately overwhelmed—not just by grief, but by beauty.
The stained glass.
The soft light.
The flowers placed so carefully at the altar.
The altar stood at the front of the room, steady and unchanging. In a moment where everything in my life felt like it was falling apart, there was something grounding about that—something that reminded me that faith does not waver, even when we do.
Every detail of the service felt intentional.
The candle burning steadily.
The rosary resting gently.
The holy water, a quiet symbol of both beginning and end.
But none of it happened by accident.
It was my mother’s final gift to my father.
The countless hours she poured into this day—every decision, every detail, every moment of planning—were made with a love that can only exist after a lifetime shared. It was her last act of devotion, shaped by years of knowing him, loving him, and understanding exactly what would honor him best.
Blood, sweat, and tears do not even begin to touch it.
Because this was not just preparation.
This was love, in its most selfless form.
These were not just rituals.
They were reminders.
Reminders that life is eternal.
That love does not disappear.
That death is not the end—it is a transition.
And then there he was.
My dad.
Smiling in the way I will remember forever.
A photograph that somehow held a lifetime—his strength, his warmth, his presence. It felt impossible that the man who had been such a constant in my life was now being remembered in stillness.
And yet, even in that stillness, I could feel him.
As people arrived, they carried their own memories of him. Stories I had heard, stories I had not. Pieces of his life that extended far beyond just being my father.
It struck me in that moment—how one life can touch so many.
How one man can mean so many different things to so many different people. Over a hundred people showed up to honor him.
The service itself was a blur of emotion and grace.
There were words spoken, prayers offered, songs sung—but what I remember most was the feeling. A quiet thread of love woven through every moment. A presence that could not be explained, only felt.
It was not just a goodbye.
It was a celebration of a life that had been deeply, profoundly lived to the fullest.
On the tables were small tokens—prayer cards, keepsakes—little pieces of something to hold onto.
Something to take home.
Because when someone you love leaves this world, you search for anything that allows you to keep them close.
Even if it is something as simple as a card. Even if it is something you tuck into your wallet and carry with you forever.
There was beauty everywhere.
In the flowers.
In the light.
In the quiet stillness that filled the space.
And somehow, that beauty did not take away from the grief—it softened it. It reminded me that even in the deepest pain, there is still grace.
Still light.
And in the middle of all that heartbreak… there was still so much love.
My son never left my side. His small hands wrapped around mine, kissing me over and over, telling me how I was the best mother… promising, in the way only a child can, that he would protect me now. People would come up to me later after the service saying it was as if Joaquín had the same spirit as my dad. And that they had never witnessed a son show his mom such profound, genuine love before.
My best friend, Julie, flew in before the sun was even up—arriving with coffee, donuts, and a heart that knew exactly what I needed before I could even say it. She held me together in ways I will never be able to fully put into words, even stepping in to care for Joaquin when I could not. It is an act of service that I will never ever forget.
And Lucas… he never let me go (when Joaquín was not around haha!). Holding me, kissing me, reminding me through every tear that we would get through this together like we always do.
I thought I was walking into that day to say goodbye.
But what I did not expect… was to be held so completely in love.
And then, just like that… the world grew quiet. And then came the moment that I had been dreading for weeks since his passing—the one I thought might actually break me. Saying goodbye to my father at his funeral was the hardest thing I have ever experienced.
The moment where there were no more prayers, no more songs, no more structure to hold me together.
Just me.
And him.
And the excruciating feeling knowing that this was it.
That this was the last time.
The last moment.
The last space we would share in this world.
It was a cold day.
But I was burning.
My tears poured endlessly, one after another, as if they had no beginning and no end. My heart was beating so fast I could feel it everywhere—in my chest, in my throat, in my ears—like my body did not understand how to survive what was happening.
And all I could think about was this: I just wanted to hold his hands one more time. To see him smile. To watch his eyes open wide with that familiar love one more time.
Just once more.
I remember thinking… how is my heart still beating?
Because it felt like it had shattered completely.
Like something inside of me had been taken, and I would never get it back.
It is a moment I do not think I will ever have the words for.
Only the feeling.
A kind of pain that does not pass… only settles quietly into who you become.
I used to think that saying goodbye meant letting go.
That it meant closing a chapter, stepping into a world where someone you love no longer exists.
But that is not what this was.
Because as I stood there, in the silence that followed it all, I realized something I will hold close to my heart for the rest of my life: I did not leave my father behind that day. I will carry him forward.
In the way I love.
In the way I show up.
In the way I see the world—with curiosity, with compassion, with depth.
And I saw, so clearly, where that came from.
From a love like theirs.
From a woman who, even in heartbreak, poured every ounce of herself into honoring the man she loved—her final gift to him, and a quiet lesson to all of us in what devotion truly looks like.
His voice is still in my thoughts.
His lessons are still in my choices.
His love is still in everything I am.
And so is hers.
And maybe that is what a life well-lived truly means.
Not that it ends… but that it echoes.
Forever.
If you would like to learn more about my father’s life, you can read his full obituary here:
Read Ralph Francis Perullo’s Obituary. It beautifully captures the life he lived, the people he loved, and the legacy he leaves behind.
