Last March 11, eight years ago I lost my dad.
We rushed him that Sunday morning to the hospital only to be told that we needed to make arrangements because he was dying. There was nothing anyone of us can do. I went to the hospital chapel, kneeled and tried my best to say something to the Man who can hear my thoughts. I could not utter a word. I could not think straight. So I stayed there staring at the walls, staring at the mute angels and saints – trying not to cry, trying not to scream. Before I stood up, I told Him in half resolve, to do whatever He please.
A few hours later, I found myself shopping for a casket. I picked the nicest one that I thought my dad would like and prepared the rest. I’ve never been so strong and weak at the same time. I’ve never been so alert and dazed at the same time. I’ve never been so relived and tired at the same time. Death seem to bring the worse in you while running on high faith for fuel. I was quite surprised of my capacity to roll with the punches.
After we burried Dad, things slowly changed. He loved perfumes and every time I open his cabinet full of clothes, I can smell him. That too slowly drifted away as time pass. My brother took his diving watch; it was only right. No one else can and will wear it but him. Dad was a spectacular chef. But now, I can only remember how well he prepared our meals. I tried but I can never come close.
I miss him dearly.
Happy birthday pa … I hope all is well.