Are you there, God? It’s me, Lau(ra). 

 

I don’t remember the last time we spoke this much. Usually, when I’ve needed You, I’ve phoned it in on the hotline—one of those desperate, static-filled calls where I do all the talking and hang up before You can get a word in. But lately, it feels like I’ve been keeping You on speakerphone, carrying You around the way someone might clutch a stone in their pocket: not sure if it’s for strength or comfort, but holding tight anyway.

 

To be fair, we’ve never been great at consistency, have we? It’s always been a lot of me running the show, expecting You to read my mind or show up unprompted, like some cosmic delivery service. I guess that’s what happens when you grow up learning that prayer is a thing you do, not a thing you feel. But now, it’s like I’ve forgotten how to not talk to You. The quiet feels too loud without filling it with something—anything.

 

And here’s the thing: I don’t even know what I’m asking for. I don’t want a sign or some divine intervention that ties everything up in a neat little bow. I just want to feel like I’m not wandering aimlessly through the rubble. Like there’s a path, even if it’s one I have to carve out on my own. I want to know You’re still there, even if it’s just as a shadow in the corner, reminding me that this isn’t all on me.

 

The last few days have felt heavy, like the air is thicker and the light doesn’t quite reach the corners. I’ve been moving through it all slowly, deliberately, like I’m afraid of stepping on something I can’t bear to break. In the quiet moments, I find myself looking for You—originally for answers, but now for something I’m trying to articulate. 

 

So, here I am. Still here. Still on the line.

 

Are you there, God? It’s me, Lau(ra). 

​

It’s strange how time bends when your world tilts on its axis. Three days somehow managed to feel like a lifetime and the length of a commercial break. Certainty, my old friend, betrayed me, leaving me standing in the aftermath of something I couldn’t plan for, couldn’t preempt, couldn’t fix. I was untethered, floating in a sea of what-ifs and never-agains, desperately searching for a lifeline that wouldn’t come.

​

There is, quite literally, nothing that could have prepared me for the last three days. None of my anticipatory grief, my hypervigilant overthinking (or, in this case, my lack thereof), or my encyclopedic knowledge of how to avoid being caught off guard—none of it could have braced me for this. For how quickly everything changed.

​

Time has become the unreliable narrator of this story. Minutes drag like they’re wading through molasses, but the hours vanish before I’ve had a chance to catch up. The clock keeps ticking, smug and indifferent, while I’m left stumbling through a haze, trying to piece together what just happened and what’s supposed to come next.

​

It’s like the ground beneath me disappeared, and I’ve been free-falling ever since, too disoriented to know which way is up. I thought I’d feel something more defined—a sharp pang of loss, a flood of tears, a primal scream. Instead, it’s a strange, hollow ache that feels as if it belongs to someone else, and I’m just borrowing it for now.

​

Are you there, God? It’s me, Lau(ra). 

​

How do I meet the needs of every version of me?

​

The littlest me—daddy’s girl—who saw the world through the lens of his laughter and believed that her favorite playmate would always be there. The one who thought the universe was the distance from his shoulders to the sky, who didn’t know that innocence was something you could lose, only that it was the safest place to be. She didn’t worry about the future because every question had an answer, and every story ended with a laugh.

​

The teenage me—equal parts volcanic and fragile, like a soda can you shake but never open. She wore anger like a badge of honor, thinking it made her untouchable, when really, it was a paper shield for the hurt she couldn’t admit. She was quick with the sharp words, slow to say sorry, and convinced that vulnerability was just a trap. It wasn’t rebellion as much as it was self-defense, though she’d never have let anyone tell her that. The world was wrong, and she was right—or at least, that’s what she told herself before crying into her pillow at night.

​

And the me today. The one who is finally at peace, but only because she fought like hell to get here. The one who knows that forgiveness—of herself, of him—wasn’t a surrender, but a release. She’s ready for a fresh start, not because she’s forgotten the past, but because she’s carried it far enough. She’s learned that closure doesn’t come gift-wrapped; it’s something you build with your own two hands, brick by uneven brick, until you’re standing on steady ground again.

​

How do I hold space for all of them without letting any of them take over?

​

Are you there, God? It’s me, Lau(ra). 

​

Grief is a strange, uninvited guest. It shows up at your door unannounced, carrying too much baggage, and settles into your favorite chair like it’s always belonged there. It doesn’t wait for an invitation, doesn’t care if you’re ready. It speaks in silences, in the way the air feels heavier, like the world has forgotten how to exhale. It rewrites time, stretching some moments into eternity while others vanish before you can catch them. It doesn’t ask for permission to rearrange your life; it just does.

​

Grief is quiet and loud all at once. It’s in the hollowness of mornings that used to be filled with the certainty of him having a cigarette on the balcony, and in the way your heart clenches when you walk past his chair. It’s in the absurdity of realizing the world is still spinning, that people are still laughing, as if they don’t know it’s cracked now, tilted just slightly off its axis. But it’s also in the everyday reminders—the hum of his TV always on full volume, as if it had a job to do, the way it filled the house with sound even when he didn’t say much. Grief is a thief and a gift all at once.

​

And grief, I think, isn’t something you “get over.” It’s something you carry. Some minutes, it feels unbearable, like a weight pressing down on your chest. Other minutes, it feels lighter, like a shadow walking alongside you. I don’t know how many times I described the end as touch and go, and I guess grief is like that too—forever hovering between staying and easing, never fully one or the other.

​

Are you there, God? It’s me, Lau(ra). 

​

For someone who spoke so little, my dad hasn’t shut up since he passed. With a cigarette in hand, he’s pressing buttons on some celestial console, figuring out how to send us signs like it’s his new favorite toy. We saw the sun for the first time in days yesterday morning, two butterflies flit past me, chasing each other in looping circles (him and my Abu), and the faint smell of cigarettes lingers in the air. He’s everywhere, leaving breadcrumbs like a mischievous kid showing off his latest gadget.

​

That was him—always a little naughty, always showing instead of telling. The kind of man who could sit in silence for hours and still somehow make his presence the loudest thing in the room. And now, it feels like he’s having the time of his life being everywhere at once. I swear I heard his voice in the back of my mind, laughing at me struggling to figure something out, like he just couldn’t resist popping in for a jab. He didn’t say much when he was here, but now? He’s got a flair for the theatrics.

​

It’s like he’s reminding us—playfully, stubbornly—that he made it to You safely.  He’s making sure we know he’s still around, still the same rascal who never liked to play by the rules. He’s out there with a cigarette in one hand and the controls to some cosmic console in the other, probably pressing buttons just to see what happens. Two butterflies chasing each other, the faintest whiff of cigarettes in the air—he’s everywhere, finding ways to nudge us, tease us, remind us. And honestly, I don’t think I’d have it any other way.

​

But just one thing, God—if he’s running around up there like a naughty kid, poking at buttons he shouldn’t touch and seeing how far he can push the rules, good luck. You’re gonna need it. Actually, can you put him on the line? 

​

Are you there, Dad? It’s me, Laura. 

​

I didn’t know how much I’d miss you. Not just the idea of you, but all the little quirks that made you, you. The way you’d lay on the bed, remote in hand, orchestrating your kingdom of Netflix. How you’d shake your head at me mid-rant, muttering something about how I talked as fast as a machine gun and still managed to miss the point. You had this quiet way of being present—never overbearing, just there, like the steady tick of a clock I thought would never wind down.

​

Now that you’re gone, it’s the absence of those rhythms that’s deafening. I keep looking for signs of you—breadcrumbs scattered through the days—and, of course, you deliver. Two butterflies chasing each other, a laugh when we all needed it, a perfectly timed breeze when the air felt too heavy. It’s like you’ve figured out how to stay without being seen, proving, as always, that you were smarter than I gave you credit for.

​

So, I’ll keep an eye out for your nudges, and you keep doing whatever it is you’re doing up there. But one thing, Dad—try not to give heaven too much grief with your antics. You always said I talked too fast, but let’s be real: you were the one who could outwit anyone with half the words and twice the trouble. Good luck, Dad. They’re gonna need it.