“My dad died on Sunday”…
…a friend’s cyber message to me from Toronto. Simple. Painful. Abrupt, as abrupt as it must have felt to her. Surreal, until the reality of the situation seeps into our daily routine.
I was taken over by two urges. One, to call her. The other to go to my parent’s bedroom, wake them up and hug my dad.
I called her.
I have seen many mothers and fathers die in the emergency department. It comes in different forms, suddenly, inevitably. I bear witness to those last minutes that children spend with their parents. It is usually, despite the grieving, calm. The handholding, the gentle caress, the kiss on the cheek are all homage to a parent whose mistakes and accomplishments shape us.
Sometimes we don’t get to say goodbye.
The funeral is today. I can’t be there. I am on the train, glancing at the foggy scenery on my way to Bonn. I wish I could be there for a friend whom I value dearly. I’d go for a walk with her. We’d find a crimson autumnal tree and sit under it in silence. No sense in talking. I’d know what’s on her mind.
Sometimes we should say what’s on our mind.
…thank you for the serenity of your soul, for the kindness in your touch, for your dedication to all of us, for your unwavering love, for the inspiration to be a good human being. Merci babi.