Chasing Rainbows: A Father’s Day Reflection

By Tiffany Greer

Timestamp: June 17, 2025. 4:20 pm. 

It was the moment that my father died.

I have had plenty of so-called life changing moments and experiences: new jobs, moves, weddings, divorce, sickness. But through all of those, there has never been this kind of finality. Knowing that there is no going back. No mind-changing, no fixing it. It was a moment that is irreversible and a feeling that is unequivocal. 

The thing is that you don’t realize all of that immediately. There are funeral arrangements, travel plans, people coming to your rescue. It’s all overwhelming. And yes, you are sad. But there is a quiet determination to put one foot in front of the other and press on. That determination, or adrenaline, or whatever it is guides you through everyday tasks. At least for a while.

The Firsts

Then come the firsts. Your parents’ anniversary (three weeks later), then his birthday, Thanksgiving, Christmas, your mom’s birthday. You make it through all of those with a focus that you didn’t know you had. Barely giving yourself permission or time to process what has happened. 

And suddenly, it’s your own birthday. Just shy of nine months since his passing. For me, that was the day that the reality and finality of it all started to sink in. It was the first time EVER, in my entire existence, that Mom and Dad didn’t sing happy birthday to me; together, off-tune, it was something that I could count on every year. For as long as I can remember, and I am positive, it happened in the years before I can remember. I would bet there are old films to prove it. 

A Birthday and a Rainbow

I am never particularly excited about my birthday, and I rarely even mention it to anyone. It’s normally just another day: work, routine, nothing spectacular. But this year, it quite honestly just sucked. Not like the turning 30 or 40 or 50 kind of sucked. It was far worse than any of those. 

I found myself listening to old voice messages on my phone and there they were. Years of my parents singing into my phone because I hadn’t answered immediately when they called to say happy birthday.  I listened to them all. Over and over. The last one really hit me. I could hear in his voice how sick he was, how much effort it took for him to get the words out. And for the first time in nine months, I broke down and cried. Not just a little. I’m talking giant elephant tears. 

I needed to talk to my mom. Not the obligatory call because she birthed me, but because I needed to hear her voice. I told her about the messages and that I realized how sick he was.  It’s not something that was as noticeable when you spoke with him day to day. But listening to the messages back-to-back, a year apart…it was shocking. And I understood how much it had hurt him to try to sing that last happy birthday song. More importantly, I understood how much he must have loved me to find the strength to do it. 

As we were talking about how much we missed him, how it was my first birthday without him, something strange happened. A rainbow appeared. There was no rain, by the way.  It wasn’t just any rainbow, but a full rainbow. The kind that you can see from end to end with every color visible and bright. I suddenly had this feeling that my dad was there, wishing me a happy birthday. I rushed to take a picture to send to my mom before it disappeared. Oddly, it didn’t disappear. The more we talked about it being a sign from my dad, the brighter it seemed to become. It lingered for more than an hour. I’ve never seen anything like it. 

I smiled, we laughed, and I cried…again.

Going Home

Fast forward to Mother’s Day. I’ve learned a few lessons since my dad died. You can’t go back in time. All the missed holidays and family gatherings, missed opportunities to spend time together, the conversations you wish you’d had; they’re just gone. 

When my husband “randomly” mentioned he had seen some very affordable flights for Mother’s Day weekend, I initially discounted it. There were all the usual excuses: can’t afford it, we can’t just randomly close the business for a few days, what about our three needy rescue pets, etc. But a few weeks before Mother’s Day, I called my mom to talk. Within seconds I blurted out “I’m thinking about coming to see you for Mother’s Day.”  It was a done deal. I booked the flight from Aguadilla as soon as we got off the phone.

I have to admit; the trip home was weird.  It was the first time I had been in my parents’ house (I still refer to it as theirs) since the funeral. The house is basically the same. My dad’s presence is everywhere. He was no longer lounging in his recliner, but his ashes were nearby. His scent is still there, along with most of his belongings. I didn’t immediately feel an emptiness when I walked in; only the absence of the usual hug and greeting.

He could have been sleeping in another room.

But he wasn’t. 

What was strange to me was that everyone else seemed to be going on with their routines. Not a judgement, but an observation. I am fully aware that life goes on, but for me, it hasn’t.  I’m not sure which is harder: being there in that house, surrounded by his things, and trying to move forward, or being away and having no everyday reminders to either comfort you or facilitate the grief process.  

Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed and cherished every second of my visit. But I came home with the same underlying sadness and numbness that I have had for months. 

Losing My Happy Place

Grief is a strange thing. Every up seems like a down and every down seems like rock bottom.  People say there will be good days and bad days, but for me there have been mostly numb days. The kind of days that you are on autopilot and are struggling to put one foot in front of the other.

And now here we are. June, 2026. It happened about two weeks ago. I woke up to my usual routine. Feed the dogs, drink a glass of water, pour a cup of coffee, and head downstairs to the deck. As I walked out the door, I explained to the dogs that mommy was going to her morning happy place. 

And then it hit me like a ton of bricks. I had no happy place.  

As I drank my coffee, I struggled to remember the last time I was happy, the last time I laughed or smiled without faking it.

Nothing. I honestly drew a blank. 

That realization brought a whole new heaviness. I silently wondered if I would ever be happy again and then, I looked at the sky and begged. “Daddy, please help me.“

Father’s Day

That brings us to Father’s Day, 2026. Another first for me, and a year after my father died. This last week has been immensely heavy. Sad, reminiscent. Father’s Day of 2025 was June 15th. It was the first time I had been with my dad in years. But it wasn’t a celebration. I sat there holding his hand while he was dying.

We needed a Father’s Day article for What’s Up Rincón. I couldn’t have written it. Edmaris wrote a beautiful article about gift ideas for dad. It was time to build the weekly newsletter which featured the article. It took me hours to muster the courage to even read it, much less create a newsletter celebrating something I had lost.  As I struggled to do it, I realized we needed artwork for a cover photo. I started to log into my Canva account and the screensaver on my phone had other ideas.

There it was.

My favorite photo with my Dad.

So that was it. The universe, my dad, something, was telling me to pay tribute to him in my own way. That old photo became the cover picture for our Father’s Day article. 

June 15, 2026. For some reason it was an especially heavy day. From the second I woke up, I was just genuinely sad. I barely got one cup of coffee into my system (I usually have four) before anxiety and nausea kicked in.

I can’t explain it. It was like someone had punched me in the gut. But life, work, responsibilities, all go on.

I was walking into work, answering WhatsApp messages, emails, etc., and I got a random notification on my phone.  It was one of those Google memory things.  I started to clear it from the notifications and then I saw the title. “Chasing Rainbows.” Hmmm.

I clicked on it and there it was. The picture of the rainbow from my birthday. 

“There you are,” I said to the empty sky. 

The Anniversary

Then there was the one-year anniversary. June 17th. Only days ago. I think that date had been on my mind for days. I was dreading it with no idea how I would react. The worst possible scenario in my head was that I would feel nothing.

Numbness has become the norm. I’ve wondered if I am capable of feeling anything.  

I knew I needed to call my mom. I wondered if I was the only one feeling this way. After all, as I mentioned before, they (my mom and brother) seemed to be moving forward.

She answered the phone and I knew. Despite all appearances, she was grieving too. She told me about having to leave her book club early a few days before. Some of the club members were talking about visiting a cemetery and it was just too much.

We talked, reminisced, and joked about the quirky things my dad had done. And she said, “but I miss him.” It was a sincere, raw, and honest statement.

Between tears, I said “I do too.”

What I’m Learning

That brings us to today. I have no idea why, but I woke up this morning feeling something different. I have no idea how long it lasted. Fifteen minutes, an hour? There was this strange positivity. It’s something that I haven’t felt in, well, forever.  I think I smiled. Internally, externally. It was a blip in time, but it was there. 

And then I cried. The floodgates are open. I am wiping the tears from my eyes as I write this.  Why now?

Perhaps it’s the realization that I have survived a year, or that I am finally allowing myself to grieve. Or maybe it is because I felt something, joy or hope? Anything besides the numbness that has been inside of me. 

In Puerto Rico, many families have something called the Misa de Cabo de Año or first anniversary mass. The one-year mark is seen as an important point in the grieving process. Maybe there is something to that.

What I do know is that one year later, for the first time in as long as I can remember, I felt something other than sadness.

When will that next time come? Maybe tomorrow, or next week. Or maybe next month.

But I am confident that it will come.

In the meantime, I will give myself permission to grieve. There will be good days and bad days. The guilt of not being present will remain. I will continue to replay those last days in my head, wondering if we could have done something to save him. I’ll listen to the saved messages over and over just so I can hear his voice again.

And I will look to the sky in search of rainbows and his guidance.

One year later, I am beginning to understand that grief doesn’t disappear. It just changes form. Some days it arrives as sadness and others as guilt.

One day it is a voice message played one more time. And the next, if I’m lucky, it arrives as a rainbow.

Happy Father’s Day, Daddy. I love you and miss you every day.