Banana Pudding Tears: Honoring Papa’s Memory

Today, I’m sharing a deeply personal moment of grief and memory. It’s about Papa, his favorite dessert, and how I experienced a wave of emotions I wasn’t ready for. This is written from my autistic perspective, and I hope it gives insight into the ways love, loss, and support show up in my life.

Note for neurotypical readers: This post shares the deep sensory and emotional experience of an autistic person remembering a loved one. The intensity may be unfamiliar if you haven’t experienced grief in this way.

Another Bite, Another Wave

Jennifer gave me this banana pudding at my therapy session today. I only managed four bites before I started crying. Why does this taste so much like him? Miranda had to get my spoon and help me calm down while I sat there, trying to eat. She stayed by my side, quietly supporting me, helping me breathe through the overwhelming mix of grief and memory. Each bite felt heavier than the last, yet somehow comforting. Each bite hurts, yet it brings him closer. At the same time, it opens old wounds.

It might sound crazy, but it’s almost like I can feel him sitting here beside me. I can almost smell him. Almost like if I just quickly glance, I can see him beside me, wearing his blue work shirt, smiling, asking if I want some more. Every bite of pudding is a reminder of him—sweet, soft, and familiar, but sharp with loss. He’s here. He’s gone. He’s here again.

From the bananas to the vanilla wafers to the pudding itself, everything tells a story that's blended together. It's all harmony beyond chaos. This is one of the reasons I hardly ever eat banana pudding. I love it just as much as he did, but it hurts too much to eat. Every spoonful brings him near while simultaneously reopening wounds I bandaged up thirteen years ago. My feelings are mushed, but yet in sync. Grief and love swirl together with every bite. How can something so sweet hurt this much?

I feel loved by a man who was my grandfather. He took it upon himself to stand up and take the place of my father when he left and help raise me. And yet, I grieve his loss dearly. I'm left with a wound that'll never heal, and the hole in my heart that'll never be filled.

I remember the day before they pulled the plug at the hospital. I was standing beside his hospital bed, and he motioned for me to come over. He was so weak I had to bend down. And he said, "Caleb, the family is your responsibility now. Take care of your mother and your sister and your brother. Make sure they're safe." He said he was tired and weak, ready to go home.

As I eat this banana pudding tonight, Miranda stays nearby, making sure I’m okay, offering small reassurances when the grief hits too hard. She quietly reminds me to breathe, to take it slow, to let myself feel. Every bite is a wave of memory and loss, and her presence helps me ride the current without capsizing. Thank you, Miranda. Thank you for staying.

It’s strange, but comforting. I can feel him near, like he’s right here in the room with me. The taste, the smell, the texture—they all bring him back. And even though the pain of missing him is sharp, the comfort of remembering him is sharper. Each bite hurts, and each bite soothes. Every spoonful reminds me of his love and the lessons he left behind. Grief and love exist side by side in perfect disharmony, a bittersweet harmony that only banana pudding seems to capture. I wish I could hold him just one more time.

And in this bittersweet harmony, with Miranda quietly supporting me, I find him again, if only for a moment. Every bite is a bridge between now and then, between grief and memory, between loss and love. And I hope he knows—I did my best. That’s all I could do. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough to make him proud. I hope it is.

As I sit here, tears mixing with every bite of banana pudding, I feel both the weight of loss and the warmth of love. Miranda is here beside me, helping me hold the pieces together when the grief feels too heavy. I carry Papa with me in every memory, every lesson, every quiet moment. I hope I made him proud. This is my way of honoring him, of holding him close even when he’s gone. I am a quiet fighter, and his love guides me.