DEAR DAD

“Life isn't always about joy; it's okay to face dark days and let those tears flow when you can't hold them back. It doesn't make us weak; it reminds us that we are still human.”

Days have flown by, months have rushed past, and years have withered away, yet the thought of you remains forever vivid. Even though your face has faded from my memory and your voice has become just whispers and echoes, I still cling to the essence of who you were. I often ask myself, 'What happened to the man I once called my father?' My memory isn’t perfect, but it holds onto the things that matter the most. So why can't I remember your face anymore? You meant the world to me—to us—but now all I have are blurs. The pain of losing you is still clearly engraved in my mind though. I recall every bit of it, every tear I shed.

Then it struck me: to move on faster than everyone else, I had to hate my own dad. I labeled you a traitor and convinced myself that anger would ease the pain. I had to erase you from my life—I had to forget my own father. I forgot you, Dad. I stopped loving you to be there for our family, your family. It was the only way I could fake a smile, providing them with the assurance that everything would be alright. But Dad, I don’t hate you. I love you just as you loved us. Everything I’ve achieved and everything I do is in the hope of making you proud. I continue to admire your endurance, your aura, your spirit. I admire your capabilities, your discipline, and how you raised us. You raised a good boy, I think. It’s probably too late to say this, but I’m proud of you, Dad.

They say a letter to the departed is like a prescription for pain—bitter like medicine, but healing for the mind. I might send this up to you in heaven someday. Your departure hurt me, man—I’ve always struggled with the thought that you’re no longer with us. Some nights, I convince myself that you’re somewhere far away, living a happy life—alive. You visit me in my dreams, those precious dreams I never want to wake from. I only wish you could stay longer, past dawn. You shared with me your intimate acquaintance with pain, recounting your grief late into the night, as if preparing me for a similar path. You spoke of Grandma, a woman I never got to meet but who must have been as remarkable as the mother you gave to us. Each time you spoke of her, your tears followed. Back then, I mistook it for love; now I understand it was also pain—the pain of losing her, the void that followed. You held onto that pain for so long; it weighed heavily on you, affecting us, your family. You held back on very many things; how you displayed love and affection and perhaps you felt it unnecessary to witness our journey fully, and so you departed. I don't want to follow that path, Dad. I strive to be better, to be present for my loved ones. That's why I'm confronting my demons today.

2018 shattered me. It eroded my trust in life's permanence. It taught me that departures are inevitable—whether today, tomorrow, or someday distant. Sometimes, they come without the chance for farewells, leaving behind questions that haunt: "Did they truly cherish us?" "Was a simple goodbye too much to ask?" "Was their love even genuine?"

On that Visitation Day, you arrived with Mom, all smiles, assuring me that everything was fine, that you'd be okay. Two weeks later, just four days after my birthday, I received a call from the warden. Mom wanted to speak with me urgently. Her voice trembled, tears on the brink, conveying your wish to see my sister and me. I played dumb, avoiding questions, trusting her assurance that you were okay, that your request was reasonable—a final farewell to those you cherished. The next morning, I was pulled out of school. Imagining that night after Mom's call brings untold agony; spare me the details.

"Derick, the warden wants to see you." Those words or atleast their shadow still echoes in my mind. I hurried off to his office and on entering I saw familiar faces. In that moment, reality blurred. Faces I knew well suddenly wore masks of fear and sorrow, hinting at the unthinkable yet expected. How could they tell a son that his dad may be no more? “He is fine, he just wants to talk to you,” they said, voices cracking under the weight of unspoken truths, my heart knew what my mind refused to accept- my worst fear had come to pass.

Imagine arriving at your sister's school, finding her drained of tears, comforted by strangers. It's an image that haunts me, making me cherish every smile I bring to her face now. She struggled to grasp that she'd never see your smile or hear your jokes again. What solace could I offer, navigating the same harsh reality? "Just tell us plainly if he's gone," I pleaded through tears but they dared not speak. Perhaps she was the only sibling to witness my grief.

Each morning, I wonder if amnesia could grant me a fresh start. Like a blank page where I can formulate a new story. One free from this grief, anger, and pain—just laughter and joy. One where you would live to see us finish school atleast. I yearn to forget stepping out of that car, seeing Mom exhausted and lost, struggling to break the news of your passing to us. It felt unjust. She didn't deserve that burden. None of us did. She sat us down, recounting your journey, emphasizing your strength and boundless love for us. But where was that love in your sudden departure? If you truly cared, wouldn't you have stayed to see us grow? Despite everything, I chose not to question the departed.

After minutes of silence, blank thoughts, and the deafening weeping of my sister and mother, I returned to reality. Wiping away tears, I said, "Why cry? Let's eat, please." That was my final act of sorrow.

On the journey to Lira, someone told me that doors close so others can open. At that moment, it made no sense. I couldn't see beyond my immediate pain. I even prayed to God, naively asking for an accident to end it all. Gladly, he didn't answer that prayer. Returning home to Lira, facing my younger siblings informed of our father's passing, the very man who promised them his swift return. You did return though, but in a fucking casket! They didn't deserve that. Struggling to grasp the situation, seeing strangers mourn in our compound infuriated me. Why were they crying? They didn't know you, not at all. They never cared. But I smiled, knowing I stood as the pillar of our family. I couldn't afford to break down. My smile restored their hope, perhaps seeing a glimpse of you in me. Whatever the reason, I'm grateful they did.

Do you understand the struggle of suppressing your tears to comfort others, waiting for everyone to sleep so you can finally mourn? Sitting beside an open casket, praying and whispering Jesus’ words, hoping against hope for a resurrection you know won't come? Perhaps you don't comprehend. If life were that precious, maybe death would spare some. This experience reshaped everything. I convinced myself that your departure birthed a monster within me. For years, I viewed life as fleeting, protecting myself from pain by severing connections. I relinquished expectations to avoid suffering, believing that expecting meant accepting inevitable pain. I lost love, trust, and hope, shutting out everyone to avoid feeling anything, thinking it would grant me immortality. But Dad, I was mistaken. Concealing pain only made me less human and utterly miserable. No, I refuse to live that way. The Imperfect Writer wants to be perfect again. I strive for growth, I am learning to live, love and laugh again. Pain will not define me from now on.

Pain doesn't justify life's hardships or absolve one's actions toward others. I am done blaming my pain for the choices I've made. Over the years, I've hurt people with my actions and words, and for that, I am truly sorry.

You were an exceptional father, a remarkable man—one I may never fully emulate. Your tale in our lives has ended, and you've returned home. I trust you now soar with wings, Dad, watching over us with pride.

Though I’ve been told that therapy is what I need, I’ve found my solace here—in the act of writing, in the pouring out of my pain onto these pages. This is my therapy. This is how I heal.

As I continue this journey, I carry your lessons, your spirit, and your love within me. I strive to be better, to live fully, and to honor your memory in all that I do. Your legacy lives on through us and through the love and resilience you instilled in us.

“Rest well, big man” ~ Derick