A year of agony

Asmara Wreksono
Aug 24, 2017 · 4 min read

It’s almost a year since I saw you having trouble breathing just shortly after our last lunch together with Mom.

Fewer tears, but the gaping hole in my soul is still there, unrepairable.

I learned how to live and laugh through my pain, though.

I smoked again for six months, after six nicotine-free years. And quit again, thankfully.

But whenever I miss you, I still steal an occasional cigarette from my secret stash, take a few drags and stupidly hope the poison will cure the wound. You know, I suppose my simple mind think it’s similar to antibiotics cure infections.

I don’t know.

You know I still sometimes forget you were gone. I still instinctively think ‘I think I’ll get that lozenges for you, just in case you ran out of stock,’ or ‘Hey does he still have his favorite wafers at home?’ whenever I’m out grocery shopping.

The shitty thing about those thoughts is that I had to stop myself from buying your favorite things because I know you’re gone and to buy them would be pointless.

Pointless. What a sad word.

I glance at your side of the bed whenever I kiss Mom before leaving for work in the morning, pretending that you’re not there because you’re taking a shower before returning to bed to cuddle with Mom while watching TV like you used to.

You know how I used to be so annoyed when you start asking questions about your gadgets? God knows why you had so many tabs, laptops, smartphones when you don’t have a single clue on how they work (sorry I have to LOL here, Pap, that is funny to me).

Now I wish you bother me everyday. Now I wish you’re still here so I can explain to you thoroughly, the difference between iOS and Android. And I wish you’re still here so I can help maintain your password changes.

You know, I thought I’m already ok, although I don’t know what ‘ok’ really is after you’re gone.

But I’m not.

And I’m never gonna be.

Yes I live, still, I have to. But there are days like this where I get hit by sadness in the most unlikely situations, not knowing where the waves that engulf me in sudden tears came from and what triggered them.

Fewer tears, I said? Maybe I was wrong.

I have trouble answering people when they ask how am I doing. I can brush them off by saying ‘I’m fine’, but I don’t like lying about how I feel, as much as I don’t like telling them ‘No, I’m not fine’. So I used ‘Can’t complain’ a lot nowadays, which is also a lie, because if I can complain about something, it would be how excruciating it is to live without you.

That five stages of grief shit? Feels more like five points circling around and hitting me from time to time rather than points I graduate from to finally feel better. Because I’m still in denial, most of the time angry, sometimes bargaining, maybe in depression and forced to accept that you’re gone for good.

This week, until September 12th, the day you left me and Mom, will be sad. For some strange reasons, I find the sadness comforting, because it means to me now that I still remember you. I forget a lot of things in this world, but one thing I never want to forget is your face. Your voice. Your being.

Remember when you read Pinnochio and recorded your voice for me to listen when you’re away on flights? I misplaced the cassette. If I find it, I’ll transfer the audio to my computer and play it over and over again.

Remember I asked you, “Your Javanese accent is rather heavy, and I only realize that when I listen to this because you don’t sound Javanese on a day-to-day basis. Why?” And you just smiled and say, “That’s because I am Javanese.”

Remember when you’d say to me, “Being an only child means you have to be strong because I will not live forever and you’ll be on your own.”

You got the two points correct: you proved that you didn’t live forever and I am now on my own. But ‘strong’?

No, Pap. I’m far from ‘strong’. I’m sorry I let you down.

But I’m trying to be. God knows how hard. What’s a ‘daddy’s little girl’ without her Dad?

Be well in your new realm, I think about you everyday. Every. Single. Day.

It has truly been a year of agony.

)
Asmara Wreksono

Written by

I believe I could fly, but I have trust issues. http://www.linkedin.com/in/asmarawreksono.

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