My dad once told me he wanted his ashes spread across the Panama Canal.

I played along and asked if I should say for a helicopter.

My father was a force, the family physician.

Then doctors found a tumor in fall of 2023.

Bapi lasted about two weeks.

The earth felt like it trembled,

but one thing felt certain, unshakable.

My father's desire to go home.

So we brought his ashes to Panama,

where I've returned to quite a lot lately to settle his affairs.

I'll be back, okay? I'll be back. Don't worry.

This is me saying goodbye to my cats in Boston the last time I left for Panama.

I called my mom on the way to the airport.

The horizon tinted pink as she asked to pray for me.

She always asked me.

She always asked God to open doors and close doors. She always asked God to open doors and closed doors.

It's something she sure God did when my parents left Panama almost 40 years ago, a tiny me in tow.

My mom and dad, a nurse and a doctor, left in 1986.

Panama remained caught in the grip of Manuel Noriega,

a dictator trained by the U.S. military, strange bedfellows.

Every Sunday, the government would air a propaganda show called Everything for the Homeland.

All for La Patria.

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