Dear Papa
Has it really been 5 years? Every summer since you died, when I remind myself to wish Mel happy birthday and take a few minutes to think of you, I’ve struggled to remember exactly how long it has been. The memory of that day is always too distant, yet too fresh and raw. But 5 is an easy one to remember. 5 became my favorite at some point when you and Mama started our daily math drills and I quickly realized it was the easiest number on the multiplication table.
A lot has happened since you left!
I started a new job. I’m writing this in Arusha, Tanzania — where I’ve been working for the last two months. I’ve seen zebras, lions, wildebeest, rhinos just meters away from me. Sam is doing really well in school, working harder than you probably ever hoped I would. I started watching basketball and baseball. I’m still smoking, but I’m healthier now — I exercise at least three times a week and I stopped going out so much. I wake up at 6AM most days, how crazy is that?
I sold out and bought a condo. I traveled through Europe with Jerry. She moved to New York. I’m starting a sleeve on my left arm. Sorry. There’s a 19 on my wrist for our birthdays! I got around to visiting Yosemite, your favorite park. I’ve been there three times now. After nine (!) years together, Luke and I tied the knot a few months ago. It was a small ceremony on our friend’s balcony, you would have liked it. Luke and Mama are getting along much better now, and Mama finally understood why I’ve fallen in love with my second family in San Francisco.
I’m a reasonable cook now. Last night I made your mie goreng recipe for my roommates: shallots, cabe, garlic with Indomie and fried eggs. I didn’t measure anything, just sprinkled things on and tried it a handful of times until it tasted right—just like you showed me.
I imagine you’re there at each of these milestones, and most of the time I can smile when I think of you.
PS. Cindy also got married, and she’s having a baby any day now!
Weddings are challenging.
It took some time, but my friends are finally deciding to get married. Two or three weddings every year now. You know I’ve never been a fan of wedding traditions, but the father-daughter dance is always difficult. Beccy and I are often together at these events. Her papa also passed away a few years ago. So when the dance comes on we hold tight to each other’s hands and our respective glasses of wine (or whiskey), ready to dash to the bathroom together in case we can’t keep it together for the whole song. There was one dance without tears, because my friend and her father chose to swing dance—and I laughed at the ridiculous thought of us trying to do that.
I’m growing up to be a lot like you.
It drives Luke crazy when I try to straighten up the clutter in our house so that piles of things are at least perfectly parallel or perpendicular to their surface’s perimeter. Remember when you used to do that to my desk at home?
I catch myself laughing and realize how much I sound like you did.
I’m pretty fit now but that Tjandrawinata belly just won’t go away, just like yours didn’t, even when you made all of the little cousins punch it to feel your abs of steel.
I pick off my toenails when I’m thinking. Only when I’m at home, obviously. I know, it’s still gross. You did it too. All the time.
Sometimes I can almost hear the memory of you pacing the Haji Domang house late at night while obsessing over some work puzzle, because I do the same — too many times to count (usually at 3AM, while smoking a cigarette).
I think we visit the same dark corners of doubt and have similar anxieties about work, life, success, identity, self-worth. Don’t worry. My friends, my other family—they fill my life with an abundance of love, years with them have taught me to be kinder to myself. I think I’ll eventually overcome for both of us the deeply-rooted Tjandrawinata perfectionism and self-doubt that neither of us could during our brief time together.
I miss you most days. I’m really glad I kept your letters.
I love you.
Your “Darling Dee Dee”
