Waves lap up against the snow white shore of San Destin. The golden sunlight beams off the emerald green water, and the smell of salt hangs in the sea breeze. Mom and Dad lead my brother Gabe and I down a wooden walkway onto the beach.

Dad looks like a Mexican tourist. His skin is caramel and his hair, black. His eyes are blue as the ocean.

When we find our spot, Mom kicks back in a chair. But we’re young boys, full of energy.

Shovels in hand, Gabe and I excavate the white sand for hours. We’re trying to dig the deepest hole we can—to China if possible. Dad joins in, and the hole becomes a foot deep, then two, then four feet deep and five feet across. To me, it’s a cavern.

Dad lowers me in, and I continue to scoop out layers of the beach. But I dig too much, and the top buckles. A waterfall of sand cascades down.

I’m almost trapped, but Dad reaches down, grabs my arm and pulls me up. He smiles and asks if I’m okay. I say yes as I brush sand off my body. Then I run off to the foamy sea to play with Gabe, and Dad chases behind. He probably wants to relax, but that’s not Dad.

Dad’s the kind of man that comes to all of my soccer practices, even if he wanted me to play baseball. The kind of man to be first in his family to go to college. The kind of man that runs a banking company and competes in marathons. That’s Dad.

• • •

A few years later I’m 9. And I look even more like Dad. Same big red lips, same smile and the same blue eyes.

But Dad’s lips aren’t so red anymore, and his eyes not so blue. For the past few years, he’s been fighting colon cancer. He went through rounds of chemo, radiation, healthy diets—anything he could do. But it wasn’t enough.

On one of his last days, I walk into his room where he lies on the bed. The hum of medical equipment fills the room. I look down at him and wince. His body’s there, but that’s not Dad.
Under his half shut eyelids, I see a dull yellow tint in his irises. In his lips and skin. Everything’s yellow. The whole week I told myself that he would make it. I knew he would make it. I believed he would make it.

I lean down to his ear and whisper, “I love you.” He can’t hear me. His chest rises and falls. A clear plastic tube runs around his neck—a snake splitting off into both nostrils.

I try to breathe, but I can’t. I feel like the wind was knocked out of me. If there was something—anything I could do to help, I would do it in a heartbeat for all the heartbeats he’s spent on me.
But there’s nothing to do. He’s already gone. So I walk out feeling like I just got suckerpunched in the throat, trying not to cry.

I knew that in a few days I would lose the man who taught me to love the New York Yankees, who pushed me to be the best at everything I tried and who played with me in San Destin even though he was tired. Why did it have to be me?

Next summer we go back to San Destin. No Dad, but we’ve added my four year old sister Stella.

Before we leave Florida, Mom takes us to a little pier jutting into the Gulf. The breeze is calm and cool, and the ocean is still.

She hands me a white envelope with my name written in black pen—from Dad. With shaky fingers, I undo the seal and inside is a three page letter.

The first line:

Jackson, I LOVE you more than I can ever put into words.

Saltwater tears drip down my face and stain the paper. Dad recounts the time he had with me—the times he watched my presentations, our trip to New York City—he gives me advice for the future.
I can see the letter right between my fingers, but Dad feels so far away. Why can’t he be here? My face streaming with tears, I read a line near the end line that stopped my tears.

Hey! And we have something in common: our blue eyes!

I look out into the Gulf and I see it—crystal clear blue. The blue of Dad’s eyes and mine, too. I realize that he’s not that far away. He may not be here for my graduation, my wedding or my children, but he lives on through me and my legacy.

He lives on through Gabe and Stella. Through memories of my soccer practices and his pictures from marathons and his office name plate in my room.

Those who have passed live on in their loved ones—in their smiles, in their laughs, and yes, even in their eyes.