Far Rockaway is by far my favorite part of New York City. Especially at this time of year, when the sun is warm but the summer crowds haven’t descended yet. I wind through Fort Tilden and park my bike in a shady little lot next to a sandy road that leads to the beach. There’s golden grass as tall as I am on one side of me, and if it weren’t for the almost-constant low-flying planes on their way to or from JFK, you could almost forget you were within the city limits.

I make it out to the beach and, as expected, the water is rough with whitecaps. Like most things in New York City, the beaches on Far Rockaway are not for the weak. This is the kind of beach that knocks you on your ass and gets sand up your bathing suit. In fact, one of my earliest memories is getting knocked over by an unexpected wave, salt water up my nose and sand burn on my cheek. And then there was Pops, lifting me out of the ocean with one big hand, throwing me on his back and making me howl with laughter as he showed me how hard it is to run forward when the waves are heading back out to sea.

It’s in that moment, with the April sun bright on the top of my head and the shiny silver ocean tossing itself against the sand, that I’m absolutely socked in the face with emotion. My vision blurs with tears and I gasp for breath as I crouch down. I don’t know how else to explain it. I miss my dad. Which is ridiculous, because I saw him two days ago and I talked to him on the phone just this morning. But it is what it is.

He’s dying. It’s slow and terrible, and there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it but help him get his affairs in order.

I’ve tried so hard not to bother him with all of my problems because in the face of his diagnosis, everything else just seemed so trivial. But the thing is, that means I just haven’t been dealing with anything that’s happened to me this year. I haven’t been turning to Pops. So I haven’t been turning to anybody.

I’m sitting in the sand and crying like a nine-year-old so I decide to fully engage with that feeling. I need my dad right now.

I pull my phone out of my pocket and call him.

“Hey, kid,” he answers.

“Dad.”

“What happened?”

“How do you know something’s wrong?” I demand.

“You only ever call me ‘Dad’ when you’re really upset. Where are you? It sounds windy.” His voice is slightly gravelly, like he’s been sleeping, and I wonder guiltily if I woke him. He needs all the sleep he can get right now.