Until we meet again
There are moments when the innocence of your childhood will disappear. Sometimes it’s a slow and steady tug on your security blanket, and sometimes it’s sudden and violent. The feeling of being protected leaves us, and we find ourselves standing alone. We feel completely vulnerable to life’s flagrant violation of our logic and rules. People shouldn’t suffer, lives should be full and well-lived. When it’s our time to go, it’s a peaceful and welcome transition to what lies beyond. Well, at least that’s my hope.
I experienced those feelings twice in my life. The first time was when my mother passed away in 2006, and the second time when Darin died in 2018.
In both situations, the transitions were not peaceful and welcomed. They were hard-fought battles that ended in submission to the brutal reality of our existence. I was hit with the sudden realization of life’s ultimate objective. None of us are getting out of here alive. Whether we are ready or not, life takes you when it takes you.
The phone call
I write this post with a heavy heart. Two weeks ago, I experienced the third episode of this kind of vulnerability. My father, 81 years old, passed away suddenly in the hospital. He was battling bladder cancer, and despite coming through his treatments, his body was weak and compromised. It wasn’t the cancer that took his life; it was his heart that had finally succumbed.
I talked to my father the day before he died, when his doctors told him there was nothing more they could do to stabilize him. They would have to let his body determine his fate. It was one of the most difficult, yet meaningful conversations I have had with my father. It wasn’t happy, but it was heartfelt.
I had just picked up my dog from the groomer and was pedaling home on my bicycle when my sister called me from my father’s hospital room in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She said, “Can you talk? Dad wants to talk to you.”
I said, “I’m on my bicycle. Can I call you back in a few minutes?”
My sister responded calmly, “No, I think you need to talk to him now.”
I quickly pulled over to the sidewalk and waited for my father’s voice.
When he spoke, his voice was strong and resolute. He said to me, “Son, there is nothing they can do for me, and they are going to let me go. I am tired of fighting.”
There I was, on the sidewalk straddling my bicycle, while passersby gave their attention to my dog. I began to cry.
I have lived most of my life away from my family, but knowing I was still the child of someone gave me security. There was always someone to watch over me. There was a safe space to call home. That safe space was shrinking again. That feeling of aloneness came back again. Once again, something was pulling away the blanket of security that blunted the traumas of life.
Our final words
I spoke with my father and told him how grateful I was for the life he had lived and for the respect he had shown me. I told him not to be afraid and to leave all of his regrets behind in that room that his body occupied. Everyone he had missed, everyone who had gone before him, was waiting for him to just make the transition. He would be reunited with all of them. I told him his destination was unimaginably beautiful, and he would be there soon, and every answer he ever sought would be waiting for him.
When Darin passed, I never had the chance to tell him those same words. I wish I would have had the same courage that I had with my father that day. This time I did not want to miss the opportunity to tell him that I loved him, to thank him, and to let him know that it was okay to let go.
My life with my father, once he understood who I was becoming, was good. After the death of my mother, we became closer. I know that it pained him to be alone, and we were fortunate that he had found a second chance at love with his companion, who was by his side when he transitioned on November 6, 2025.
He wasn’t alone when he left this place. Even though I was so far away, I felt peace. I was happy for his life well lived, the experiences we had together, and for the people we both became.
I had the opportunity to show my father my love for Europe, and my home in Italy. We had the chance to travel extensively after my mother died, and we spent much time together in California. I didn’t feel that I lacked time with him, despite a lifetime of distance between us. For that, I was grateful.
Vivi ogni giorno come se fosse l’ultimo
So, I leave you with this simple message: Live every day as if it’s your last. Live with no regrets, and if you have some that are hanging on to your past, do everything you can to release them. Carry no unspoken words of love and admiration. Say them often. Finally, always give grace to those who are on this road with us, even if you know nothing of their story.
I have included some of my favorite photos with my father below. These are the moments I will remember: two adventurers on a journey that we were fortunate to share for a brief moment in our forever story.
Non è un addio, Papà, ma un arrivederci. Ci rivedremo.
My most sincere condolences, Luke. Thinking of you and your family.
Thank you, Carolyn. I appreciate your kind words. Be well my friend!
Heartfelt thanks dear Luke for your vulnerability in sharing these beautiful moments and words with your Dad ❤️🩹 Your sentiments are such an important reminder to live each moment and say what needs to be said. Sending you lots of love ❤️ Bowlsie
Thank you Bowlsie! I struggled with how to tell the world about my father’s passing. I found the sentiments and the volunerability were just waiting to be shared once I was ready to write them. I am thankful for the time we had together, and for the life he helped me create, which includes life-long friendships, like ours. ❤️
Such a loving tribute … a life well lived. Love lives on in our hearts forever and in the legacy left behind. Hugs Luke!
Tanya, thank you. Yes…he had a life well-lived, and full of so many wonderful things. Thanks to you and your family for being part of those wonderful things.❤️
Thanks for sharing this, Luke. What a beautiful opportunity you had, and you made use of it. The feelings are all so familiar. And thank you for the reminder to… live.
Lisa, how are you my friend? Thank you. I fought hard to choke the words out, but I wanted him to know he was loved, appreciated and ready for whatever is next. I hope I have the courage that he had when It’s my time to make that leap. Be well..and yes..let’s continue to live fully!
What lovely words and deep feelings. I am sure you Dad was so proud of you. ❤️
I also lost my father and had the opportunity to spend almost two years with him as he battled and lost his fight with a simple skin cancer. We were not very close for 57 years, but we were thrown into a battle together and fought hard. He and my mother were both very independent. She was furious that his illness forced her to move from their custom built retirement home on a golf course where she had a close community and played at least 9 holes every day.
When his time became shorter, he challenged me to stop waiting. To pursue every dream. “Because my dear daughter, all you will regret when you are here, permanently horizontal, is what you did not do.” So he helped me plan my move to Italy. He put pins on a map of all the places he would go if he were with me. It’s been more than 10 years His urn and ashes go with me
First to Italy and a magical two years of road trips where I scattered a few ashes in all of his chosen destinations. Then Portugal where I know he loved being on the ocean. And now to France in the farm country. I’m not sure I have any more big adventures in me. But wherever life takes me, I know my father is laughing a lot.
Whenever the time is the same triple or quadruple digit, I know my father is here. He’s been laughing as I have gotten completely lost in the hills of Tuscany, when I drove off the road into a ditch in Umbria, and when I met a few of the big famous people on Lago di Como and on a tiny strip of beach in Sirolo on the Adriatic.
I still reach for my phone to call him and tell him about a spectacular sail off the coast or a great wine bar.
Life. Never waste a moment. And as my father told me: “GO!! GO NOW!! WHILE YOU ARE VERTICAL! BECAUSE ONCE YOU ARE HERE, LIKE ME, PERMANENTLY HORIZONTAL, ALL YOU WILL REGRET IS WHAT YOU DID NOT DO.”
Hug more. Laugh a lot more. Say thank you and say I love you. Smile at every single person you encounter. Breathe deep. Pause for every sunset. Be thankful. LIVE!
Thank you for sharing your story, your father’s lessons, and your triumphs! Your father was absolutely right. In the end, I want to be so exhausted from my adventures, that I am ready to rest. I want to feel as if I have taken every experience available to me, and lived it. I want to release my words of love without fear of rejection. I think I learned something these last few weeks. Whatever I thought my life should be, (and it has been a gift) I want to run towards whatever is next even if it’s different than I expected. The end goal is the love you create and the love you receive.Thank you for being part of the gift! ❤️
Thank you my friend. I am so grateful to have you in my life. Sanremo and my adventures would not be the same.❤️
Your father was a dear man that I always being around. Every time he came to visit you and Darin, he’d ask me if I needed anything fixed at my house and then he would proceed to fix things for me! You are blessed that you were able to have that final conversation with them and the blessing it gave to your father and to you. Big hugs and kisses to you. Love you
Thank you, Linda. My father was at his best when he was doing something for someone else. His generosity was always on display when he knew you were an important person in his life, or the life of his family. Thank you for being there for me. I was blessed to have him and I think he knew that in the end. He created a beautiful legacy. Big hugs to you and lots of love in return.
So sorry for you loss, such a beautiful tribute to your father and your loving relationship. I loved the last phrase and have copied it to remember: “Non è un addio, Papà, ma un arrivederci. Ci rivedremo” grazie mille!
Thank you, Lisa. Yes, I came to realize that goodbyes are not the same in Italy, and people want to be left with the promise of another opportunity to connect again. For the first few years, I never fully appreciated ‘arrivederci’ even though I said it often to strangers in the park, or on the street, or with friends and family. It’s the promise that our paths will cross again. I like to hold on to that belief. Be well, and thank you again.
Thank you for sharing this. It is hard to let them go. Sending you lots of love and a big hug. Hope to see you soon. My almost neighbor. And a hug for Sofia. 💔
Thank you Cindy. It is hard to let them go, but it was made easier by knowing he was at peace and loved his life. He was surrounded by his familiy and friends..and the hope of what was beyond. I hope to see you soon as well..and both Sofia and I send a hug back. ❤️
Wonderful words. Beautiful vision. Warm hugs. ❤️
Thank you cousin! Big warm hugs back to you and Tanes. ❤️
Oh Luke, it is surely a big moment when one becomes an orphan. That shudder of loss, it’s as if the world slightly shifts on its axis. What a beautiful testament to, I am sure, a lovely man. Didn’t he have the most precious of sons? A handsome, huge hearted, funny, adventurous loving man, you are a credit to him. Sending you so much love ❤️💙❤️
Patti, thank you for your beautiful words. Yes, the earth shifts..and we find ourselves orphaned. Even at 55 years of age, there are times I want to crawl under a blanket in the bedroom I grew up in, and have that assurance of security. But then I realize the adventures to be had and the stories to be told, and the losses we sustain become our security. It’s our way of knowing all is as it should be, and we are alive. Thank you and I hope we see each other soon! ❤️❤️
This was a beautiful essay of memories; thank you so much. I left CA to care for my mother in WI 7 years ago and lost her at the end of that November. I recall one particular evening when she felt restless and we just sat in a dark room holding hands and looking out the window at the full moon. Making room for the moments takes so many shapes. Your words have painted the profound emotion of yours in a very lovely and special way. I am so sorry for your loss, all of it. And glad for what you’ve taken with you.
Luke,
So very sorry to hear about your father. How wonderful that you were able to speak the words and “be” with him…
Thank you for your generous sharing your thoughts, grief and love for him.
Thank you, Paola. That conversation will remain with me for the rest of my
life. I was blessed that I had the chance to talk to him, and I hope comfort him. Wishing you a wonderful week and thank you for following along.
Dear Luke,
What a beautiful tribute to your father. We are so sorry for your loss.
Love, Cheryl & Mike
Thank you, Cheryl. I appreciate your kind words. Wishing you and Mike a wonderful holiday season, and our hope our paths cross again soon! When you make it over to Italy, please let me know. Lots of love to you both ❤️
Thank for sharing this beautiful post, Lou. Lots of people I know have recently lost a parent or are on their journey now. Our experiences may be different but most seem to land on a similar reflection. My father passed in June at 95 years old. He had a bad fall exactly12 months ago which started a tough trip in and out of hospital, convalescence, and assisted living. We had similar honest conversations and I am grateful for our long goodbye. Some people don’t get to say goodbye.
I was touched by the image of you straddling your bicycle in public while receiving this life-changing news. Your story reminds us to give grace to folks who may not be at their best or quietly struggling through something like this. I am changed by my experience and a better friend to those who have not gone through this yet. I hope I can pass forward your kind message to my circle too.
Michael, so good to see your name pop-up in my comments. Thank you very much for taking the time to share your beautiful words. I’m so sorry to hear of your father’s passing, but what a beautiful life he must have had. Those conversations we have when all there is left is love and hope are unforgettable. I’m glad you had your chance to send him off with love and dignity.
I hope we both continue to find grace, when life makes it difficult to muster. Sending warm wishes to you and your family. I hope you are all doing well and that you have a wonderful holiday season ahead.
I’m so sorry for your loss, Luke. Thanks for sharing such lovely words about your dad. Sounds like you had a very special relationship. Sending love to you, Tracy, and the rest of your family.
Shane, so good to see your note. Thank you for your kind words. We had a good relationship despite my distance. I’ll pass on your kind words to my sister and the family. Be well my friend! Thank you again.