From you I learned that the pen is
mightier than the sword. Maybe that’s why I’ve poured so much of myself
into wielding that particular instrument with precision. Now I can’t
recall, only that somewhere along the way, I fell in love with words and the
things they could do.
When she died, I used my words to
cut into my soul, let the pain bleed into words. The scars eventually
healed and faded. It’s not very recognizable now. I was stunned
when you left. You were supposed to come back. Little girls who put
their fathers on pedestals are disappointed when the first realize their hero
is becoming tarnished with age. Yet, we love you like when you were young
and undefeatable. You are our hero, our superman, our prince charming,
the one who keeps our world spinning on its axis.
When we grow up we learn that you
were just the great wizard behind the curtain and all we ever had to do was
will ourselves into our own happily ever after. First we had to find the
courage to walk down the yellow brick road that would lead to your citadel.
I thought I could do this, talk
about you. It seems when I use my words, the cuts I make are deeper and
the pain doesn’t pour, it gushes out. I do not know how to do this, live
in a world where you don’t laugh or where I can’t call your name, the one I
called you my whole life. My tongue has fallen silent. My memory
replays the last time I saw your face, laughing from the other side of the
world. I don’t understand how you could simply fall silent, close your
eyes, and draw your last breath.
I don’t understand the sound that
filters through the phone, breaking through the fog of sleep after a week of
troubled sleepless nights. I don’t understand the tears I hear or the
familiar voice, or the words that she utters. The words don’t feel real.
How can you be dead? Dead as a doornail; deader than Marley’s
ghost. They show me a body. It’s a live video. In this day
and age of instant information, gigabytes that travel faster than the speed of
light, how is that dead body lying there on the slab yours?
Why are you gone? No one
answers me. I hate this. I hate how much of my life revolved around
you. Should I have loved you less? Knowing you’d one day leave me
is far different now that you’re actually gone. I close my eyes and I see
you, sitting there the morning after I gave birth to your first grandson, while I tried to
sleep. His father had to take him to NICU. My mother went home to
get some rest. I managed to get some sleep that morning only because
every time I opened my eyes, you were sitting right there beside me in the
dark.
I see you again beside my hospital bed, holding
your last grandson, the one who misses you every day, the one who prays for you
every day even though you are dead. He is the most like you I think. When
he laughs it is pure joy. They make the pain ease until the next time
your memories start haunting me. Maybe it’s better to hide behind this
wall of silence because at least I can smile from back here and pretend I’m not
broken beyond repair.
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