kagablog

This time last year, you were still here.

I don’t ever remember much except for fragments.
Tiny collated pieces that follow no linear time.
But I remember being really little,
Small enough that I fit inside the length of your arm.
I remember lying with you,
My head on your chest, listening attentively to your heart beating and trying to match my inhalations to yours
And my exhalations, too.
I could never quite figure why you were able to last so much longer than me.
I liked listening to your heart beating because I loved knowing that you were alive.
I remember, too, being a little bit bigger, longer now, so I didn’t quite fit the length of your arm, when it suddenly dawned on me that it was of paramount importance for me to die before you.
I remember the amused perplexion on your face, asking me why..
My answer was as simple as a child’s should be, but more than that, too.
I told you it had to be that way because there was no way I could survive in this world without you.
I don’t remember now, what prompted the thought then, but I do remember reiterating it to you over the course of our years together, the reasons changing as I grew, but always staying the same.
And every time you would give me the same answer,
“It’s not Nature’s Law for the child to go before the parent.”
I’d protest that I didn’t care about Nature’s Law but only about what was in my heart.
You’d go on to say that the human spirit was built to take that sort of pain and finds a way to continue on.
My defiance used to see me orchestrating my own version of events,
but hindsight teaches me that you can’t prepare for the unexpected.
You were right..
But then, you kinda
almost
always were.

I remember your Bear Hugs and how they were my favourite place to be.
I remember how making you smile,
making you laugh,
making you proud of me was my greatest joy and comfort.
I remember your wisdom,
your Faith,
your intuition and
your gentle,
silent understanding of me.
I remember, too, how much I was able to infuriate you,
and you me,
and that for the most part it was because we could see so much of ourselves mirrored in the other.
But my infuriating you,
I know now,
had more to do with your desire to not see me cry.
I miss that.
Your telling me not to ruin my pretty eyes with tears.
And I miss your voice, too.

I remember knowing that I’d known you before.
Not how or when,
just the cognizance that you and I had walked and
breathed and
talked together in a life before.

I remember how I loved your hands.
Not only for all that they were able to create,
generate and
heal, but because they looked just like mine,
as though reminding me that I am of you as you are of me.
They still remind me now, when I feel as like I’m missing you more than I should.
But miss you, I do.
I still have your number in my phone like I think I might be able to call you up someday and fill you in on some random thought that passed through my head, or ask you for directions, or warn you of traffic up ahead so you can take an alternative route home..

I remember how you demanded honesty and integrity by being those same things yourself, in every way.
I remember your kindness,
your desire to help anyone who crossed your path that needed assistance even when,
long ago,
it was beyond your means.

I remember YOU.
All that you taught me.
All that you inspired and challenged me to be.
I miss you now, like I missed you then.
I always missed you.
Always wanted more time with you.
More time to share and learn.
I loved and respected your absolute objectivity.
Like how you told the boy who came to ask for my hand that I was the difficult kind and if he thought he’d be able to manage that.
The memory you shared with him was from when I had just learnt to name all of the days of the week.
The grand parents were over and you wanted me to show them what I’d learnt – I think I must have been 4.. ?
I went onto say,
“Monday. Tuesday. Wednesday. Friday. Saturday. Sunday.”
You asked me to try again and I repeated myself,
exactly as I had the first time.
You reminded me that I’d left out ‘Thursday’.
I said that I knew but didn’t want to say that particular day.
Once more you asked me to recite the days of the week and if I left it out I could go to my room.
“Monday. Tuesday. Wednesday. Friday. Saturday. Sunday and Good Night!”, I said, and took myself off to bed.
Was it stubbornness or my propensity to cut-my-nose-to-spite-my-face?
Maybe..
But it’s only just dawned on me now, that the day I wouldn’t say then,
all those years ago,
is the very same day you left me here to recognise the
strength of the human spirit.
Coincidence or chance or.. ?

I remember that I didn’t speak until I was 2 years old and that you and Mum were worried that I might be Autistic, doctors reassuring you that I was fine and that I would speak when I was ready to.
I never did have a first word.
My first utterance was,
“Where did my Daddy go?”
Chance or coincidence, that that very same sentence will be the same question I ask myself until the day I breathe my last breath.
More with a ‘why’ than a ‘where’ though.

I miss you.
I miss every aspect of your being, being here with me.
Your wit.. Your charm.. Your respect.. Your exuberance..
Your love of life..
Your love for and of me..
I miss your gentle eyes and how your expressions could speak a thousand words to me..
Calm me..
Reassure me when I was getting too highly-strung or bothered by life going on around me.

You are my hero.
My inspiration..
I can only hope you taught me long enough so that I may be half the person you set out to be and
became to the Nth degree.
And I hope, pray, know that you are still guiding me now,
like you always did.

I’m sorry, too, for all he things we both know I have to be sorry for
and sorry, I am..
Really.. Really, I am..

I miss your hands, Dad.
I miss their ability to repair anything that was brought to you,
from toys, to electricals, to upholstery, to food,
to paint
(however I decided I could paint the inside of a house I will never guess,
but you had it repainted within a 3 day weekend and it had taken me 2 weeks to destroy )
to anything..
Anything at all.
No-thing was ever too hard for you. You never recognised problems, only ever seeing solutions or room for improvement.

I miss your hands, Dad.
And I still remember the last time I held them in mine and how I almost tricked myself into believing my fire might warm the frigid ice.
When I prayed that my tears might turn the cold to living flesh,
giving you anew the gift of life.
I would have,
would still,
exchange mine for yours.
My hands did warms your hands that day,
I held them so long,
crying my goodbyes to you.
I miss you, Dad,
but I love you more,
and I thank God that, even if He took you too soon,
I wouldn’t trade the gift of my 29 years with you
for a lifetime longer with a lesser man.

This time last year you were still here..

Hey Dad,
I want you to know that I am proud of you, too!