Coffee with Pops

If I could sit across the table from you, Pops, steaming mugs of Cafe Bustelo between us, there’s so much I’d want to say.

First, I’d tell you I forgive you. I forgive the chaos, the confusion, the distance, the addiction. I know you carried your own pain, and you did the best you could with what you had. I’ve carried that understanding with me all these years, and I want you to know — I don’t hold it against you.

Then, I’d want to tell you thank you. Thank you for the lessons you gave me — the hard ones, the ones you might not have meant to teach, but I learned anyway. I learned how to work, how to hustle, how to push through even when the world feels like it’s stacked against you. I learned how to love my people and how to show up for them, even if my ways weren’t perfect. That was you, all day.

I’d tell you how much I wish you could see me now. See the man I’ve become — a chef, a leader, someone people look to for guidance. You’d get a kick out of that, no doubt.  Knowing I run kitchens, manage crews, mentor the next generation of youth. You’d probably laugh that I somehow turned all that kitchen stress into a career, and you’d definitely tease me about putting down the mic and ask “What happened, you retired” with a deep chuckle in your voice.

I’d want to tell you about my book. About how I took my story, our story, and put it on paper so it wouldn’t get lost. So maybe someone out there wouldn’t feel so alone, the way I did some days. I’d tell you I talked about you in those pages — not to shame you, but to honor you. Because you shaped me, whether you knew it or not.

And then I’d want you to know about the good things — the love from people in my life, the friends who became family, the mentors who took me under their wing, the dog I adopted who reminds me that loyalty can change a man’s heart. I’d tell you, “my bad I haven’t made you a grandpa yet, I know you always asked when I was going to make you a grandad.”

I’d tell you that I miss you. Even with all the messiness, all the fights, all the heartbreak, I still miss you. Sometimes when I’m driving to work or cleaning up after a long day, I wish you’d pick up the phone and check in. I wish you could see how I’m trying to walk through life the best way I know how. I had my battles with the bottle too, and I learned that it takes time to heal from that struggle also.

If we were sitting there, and you asked me, “Son, are you happy?” — I think I’d tell you yes. Not every day, not every minute, but on the whole? Yeah. I’m happy. I’m at peace. I’m proud of what I’ve built, of the man I’ve become, of the way I’ve learned to love myself. I try to carry myself with dignity and lead by example. I think you’d be proud too.

And as our cups grew cold, I’d thank you again. For giving me my first kitchen lessons, for showing me what perseverance looks like, even in the darkest days. For being a part of me, whether you were near or far.

Then I’d stand up, give you a dap, hug you tight, and tell you the one thing I maybe didn’t say enough while you were still here:

I love you.