Mariana Serapicos’ father died from ALS when she was young. For Electric Literature, Serapicos describes a childhood growing up in Brazil and recounts when her dad got very sick. In this heartfelt piece, she honors her father and writes about memory, aging, and loss.
He’d shrunk in those two years; the disease was overtaking him. And it was our job to remember how we used to be. His essence never left, and only now can I acknowledge that, because back then, it was easier to split him in two—before and after his illness. Perhaps it was more palatable to feel like I was losing him in installments; that I could say goodbye to each part as they left. Bye, legs; bye, feet; bye voice. Stalling for as much as I could, dragging my feet, like him.
More picks from Electric Literature
I Rewatch “Gilmore Girls” to Remember my Stepfather
“I find echoes of the man who raised me every time I watch the iconic mother-daughter show.”
Eurovision Reminds Me of a Country That No Longer Exists
“Europe’s pop music Olympics makes me nostalgic for my motherland before war splintered it.”
I Can Never Own My Perfect Home
“There is a cost to being a writer, and my bill has come due.”
Being an Asian Southerner Means Being an Anomaly, Squared
“This is how I know an Asian South exists: I miss it.”
I Am the “Other” in “Mother”
“By choosing surrogacy, I felt I outsourced the very essence of what makes a woman worthy.”
Working Black Friday in the Rich Part of Town
“To be a service worker is to be in constant deference to Karens, but in retail, a Karen can be anyone.”
