I had a dream that I can barely remember. My father died. The words woke me from sleep. I told no one about the dream for fear of telling the reality of it. The next day, my sister called me and told me that my father was in the hospital. My mother later told me that before he was admitted, he jokingly said: "Once you go in here, you never come out." Only my father could laugh at that joke: he tested positive for COVID-19. Then the waves started.

I have always been fascinated by waves. The wide waves the ferry makes, the little waves when I'm sitting by the pier, the try-hard waves at Coney Island. I could stare at the waves all day long, whether in photos, GIFs, or of course, real waves on the beach. Even my Alexa knows that this is my go-to sound when I sleep. Right now, the waves are the hardest part.

My mother works on the front lines as a nurse, my sister has an indispensable job at the hospital, and when the blockade of COVID-19 began, I begged over the phone, "Please, be careful. Please don't leave the house for me." I was worried about my three daughters. Anxiety gripped me as I ate my breakfast, thinking of my daughters if they contracted the coronavirus. At times, I tasted the saltiness of tears as I brushed my teeth in the morning, frustrating myself with the thought of what could happen to my daughters. But I never once worried about my father.

My father was the type of man who could tell when he wasn't feeling well. My father would moan loudly and sigh heavily, and his cough could be heard through the walls of the house. If he had a mild cold, it was enough to make you think he had pneumonia. The pneumonia progressed slowly. For once he didn't make a big fuss. Just prior to that, I had returned to my Brooklyn apartment from a vacation in London and the coughing had not stopped. Then I developed a fever, body aches, and later, a dulled sense of taste and smell. I did not get tested, but I sensed that the illness was more serious than I was willing to let my parents know. I shook it off. I did not know how my father became infected, but I had no doubt that he too was infected. My father was strong and had no underlying disease.

My mother noticed a distinct change in my father's condition around the same time the protesters began to rally to restart the economy. There was a chorus of people holding signs that read "I need a haircut," shouting in the faces of police officers, and wearing more than enough guns to exercise their rights. My father headed to the hospital the moment half the country had had enough of segregation and decided the virus was a fake, after witnessing the murder of a black man over the counterfeiting of a $20 bill.

My father may have put on a little show when he felt ill, but he was a mountain of a man. He said everything with his chest out and bulldozed his opinions. He was right and you were wrong. If you crossed him, you could forget about any future conversations. He was the embodiment of the phrase "keep your circle." His circle was his family and no one else mattered. He hugged us tightly. Sometimes he hugged us too tightly. His honesty cut deep toward us when we had nowhere else to turn.

When I left home four years ago, I ignored his calls. That man loved to leave voicemails. I saved almost all of them for entertainment purposes only. When I did answer, I would change the subject if he mentioned us playing or going out to dinner. We clashed over almost everything as adults, but when we were young I adored him. It didn't matter if he made me cry with his frank words. Because when he said something that made me smile, I clung to it. As I grew older, I stopped clinging. Everything became an argument. I instantly braced myself. When we did talk, I tried to cut it off before he said something that made the back of my eyes prickle. By the time I left the house, most of our conversations were filled with blustery comments and sermons.

When the pandemic hit, something changed. I began answering calls and texts from my father. I wondered what I would do if he ignored them. It was often a one-sided conversation that ended with, "I'm at work. In these lawless times, in the midst of the madness that surrounded us all, it was normalcy. We started saying "I love you" when we hung up the phone. Not strange, but not normal for us. Now that this phone call was our only means of communication, the "I love you" seemed necessary. It is one comfort I will always have. The last words he heard from me were "I love you."

Since his hospitalization, it has been a nerve-wracking series of events. News about his health was constantly shifting. Every time I thought I could keep my head above water, another wave pulled at me like an undertow. My father's symptoms had mostly subsided (above), the cough and shortness of breath were not subsiding (below), the doctors thought the lingering symptoms might be due to psychological reasons (above), a blood clot was found near his heart (below), it was minute and nothing to worry about (above), oxygen levels needed to be increased (below), intubation was necessary (below) ), signed DNR (below), nothing works (below). My father's hospital stay was filled with ripples of anxiety until we needed to be mindful of the inevitable. My father, the strongest, most outspoken, figurative giant in my life, never came home. [While I was facing life without my father, the world was living in a historic moment. Unfortunately, the tragedies of George Floyd, Breanna Taylor, Elijah McClain, and so many others are not new experiences for black people. They are all part of a steady and consistent stream of oppression that has been ongoing for many years. Now we are once again at a turning point with the "Black Lives Matter" movement. Thousands of people are marching around the world, hoping that our voices will be heard over the roar of the ocean crashing against the rocks.

Two monumental world events and I ... I am tired (opens in new tab). Every time someone asks me a question, I find myself rolling my eyes or looking at the text with disdain." How are you?" What do they think of me? I don't say to anyone, but I say aloud, "I'm fine. But anger has nothing to do with fatigue. My father just passed away and this country is on fire because people don't think I should be treated equally because of the color of my skin. The majority of the country cares more about the statues (open in new tab) than the prejudice they symbolize or the racism that is taught, learned, and built into every system around us. At this point, all of this is damaging to my psyche. Exhaustion doesn't seem to be a sufficient word for me or any other black person.

All my life, I have been told by my parents that I am "glue." Down to earth and dependable. You are the glue of this family." But I wasn't ready for that. I was unbalanced and unsure of everything that was happening around me. Sometimes the whole world is on fire and I feel nothing all day long, other times I feel pure anger. And some days I feel empty, stuck, just helping those around me, then drinking myself to sleep.

But through it all, I try to find small glimmers of hope. For example, I genuinely laugh at the vulgar words my father said when he was here, I see the petitions I signed and the funds I donated to reach their goals, I see children riding on their parents' shoulders at protests. This is what keeps me going. These glimpses of hopefulness for the future are one of the few things that keep me going. Hope that my family will get through this and not feel this nagging hole. Hope that the election results are just the beginning of a changing tide. Hope that I will eventually be able to listen to my favorite voicemail he left me.

I miss my father (below). I think he is finally at peace (top). I hate that I'm still fighting just to be seen as human (bottom). I am proud that I continue to fight against injustice and for an equal world (top).

Up and down. Push and pull. I feel grounded, but not grounded.

Before this happened, I was obsessed with the waves and their movement. The way the waves ebb and flow after they break apart. Seeing it now, it's more than that. The waxing and waning of the waves reminds me of what we face in life. At some point, there is a peak, a critical point, a turbulent moment.