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My Father is Dead
How is it to consider your father dead when he is still fully alive? How is it to put an end to years of suffering and bid a final goodbye?
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As I sit here with a heart-wrenching pain and a paper to pour it out on, I wonder how my life would have been had my father still been around. When I last saw him, he had put on some weight, had fuller cheeks and was busy cracking some stupid joke while demanding one more cup of tea from me. When I last saw him, I never knew I was going to see him last in his sanity.
Today, it has been months that I haven’t talked to him. It has been months that I haven’t seen him. It has been months that I have more or less forgotten how much fuller his cheeks were or how much tea he wanted in a cup. It has been months since I’ve even crossed the lane leading towards a place that I once called home. It has been months since I met the dogs of the vicinity. More than that, it has been months of considering my father dead when he is fully alive.
My father was never a square. He had his unique and toxic ways of getting his things done, a narcissistic behaviour he was proud of. It was in some way my fault that I could not see through…
