Thoughts that have been haunting me for a year

I can't believe it's already been a year.

A university degree is useless when it comes to theories about grief and its so-called process. Grief is not a process—it's more like mess.

And that mess is reflected in what I'm trying to write today, which actually lacks any temporal coherence. Because it truly doesn’t feel like a year has passed.

It’s been a year since my Dad is no longer in the physical world. A year since I last heard his voice—unless it's in the videos I sometimes replay over and over, or in the audio messages he used to send me.

And time feels inconsistent… I feel like all of this happened a long time ago… but also like it didn’t. Sometimes I forget it happened. Other times, I just can’t believe it.

My Dad no longer being here has made me reflect deeply on the meaning of life… and of death.

And the truth is that for neither of those—such fundamental questions of the human experience—there are any answers. The most logical, primary, and basic questions of our existence have no answer: What are we doing here? And what happens when this ends?... As a species we’ve found answers to so many things, but not to the most basic ones.

Because on an ordinary day, you might wake up thinking it will be just another day, without suspecting that maybe that day is when the book closes and the story ends.

What story did you write?

My Dad wrote a story that, to me, left a legacy. And I believe for those who knew him, too. He was—and is—an exceptional man.

My Dad loved in a way I’ve never seen anyone love a woman. He was deeply in love with my mom. I believe she was, many times, his reason for being, and that’s why things became so hard when they were no longer together. Plus, all the members of our family were in different places—physically and emotionally.

My Dad would drop everything to serve those he cared about. More than one person remembers his way of cooking, which I saw up close—it could take hours. He truly poured all his spices, dedication, and love into every dish he made.

He made the best lasagna many people had ever tasted, and then he specialized in other types of food. But everything he made was delicious. Even the strangest ingredients somehow came together beautifully in his dishes.

He had very specific tastes. He loved music. His soul melted into the voice of a tenor. His emotions were so intense that many times he was overcome with tears just from hearing a melody and a beautiful voice.

He also had strong values, and political opinions and ideas about humanity’s progress that once seemed unsettling to me, but today almost feel prophetic. Many times, when I reflect on global trends, I think: “My Dad was right.”

He was devoted to God and the Catholic Church, without any doubts in his faith.

His way of thinking and his devotion live on in me. They are part of me—gifts he left behind.

My Dad wasn’t afraid of looking silly. He danced in such an iconic way that I often felt embarrassed—I have to admit it. But he didn’t. And seeing him so happy made it impossible for me to even allow myself to feel embarrassed.

My Daddy was a man of honesty and kindness. An idealist, like those from the books he loved so much: Juan Salvador Gaviota and Don Quixote.

He spoke with so much passion and fire about the things that stirred his soul… And while he loved to please others, he never changed, never compromised his essence—not even for the person he loved most. His values and unique way of thinking always remained intact.

His ways—gentle, loving, and full of feeling—are a legacy from his beautiful family. I think that’s what made him so unique and unforgettable for so many. He spoke and moved with elegance. His presence was inherited from his mother and father. And today, each of his siblings—my uncles and aunts—carry that same special mark. That way of speaking, moving and behaving. Outside of them, I don’t know anyone so respectful and kind in the way they speak to others. And when I see them, it’s like seeing my Dad. They’re all so deeply connected in an intriguing way… The six siblings each carry something that makes them almost one.

I remember once, when Mom wasn’t home, the three of us—you, my brother and I—stayed up very late at the house in Puerto Montt watching movies. And the last one we watched was Peter Pan.

To me, you are like Peter Pan. A man with the soul of a child, an idealist, someone who knows he can always fly to Neverland. Where no one grows old, and everything is perfect. Just like it was in your heart.

We miss you, Dad. This world misses you.