I hate rainy afternoons. I think they remind me of the day my Aunt and her husband drove me home to meet the most heart scraping pain ever inflicted upon my life. The day I was told my Daddy died…
I still remember odd scenes from that day. The way the rain splattered shy rain drops on my aunts white car. The way the trees seemed to tremble when the wind touched their dripping leaves and how as a seven year old, they seemed too big for my eyes to swallow all at once. Certain moments from that day seem to have been lost except that time when I was sitting near to the T.V. unaware that my life was about change forever. I did not notice my aunt walk up to me so all I heard was a careful whisper in my ear saying “your father died today”. Whispered in the same way a girl might whisper to her best friend “I like the colour you dyed your hair”. The same way a lover might whisper “I really had fun today” after an amazing date.
I couldn’t move for a few seconds…and when I did the only place I could find solace in, were the bathroom floor tiles. My young life felt like a cruel dream and has ever since felt like that almost too often to smile about. I did not understand what the death of my Daddy really meant but all my mind kept telling me was “you will never see his face again”. The days that followed were a mist between being held by family and sudden realizations that for the rest of my life I would not ever see my father’s face again.
I cannot remember much about my father’s funeral except my sister’s hysterical cries from his graveside. But I do remember sitting on my mother’s lap and looking at his coffin thinking “they didn’t let me even see his face for the last time”. After his funeral, I remember having vivid dreams where he was weak and begging me to help him… and the pain always hit the hardest when I woke up.
I was seven years old. How do you mourn the death of your father at seven years old? I didn’t. Somehow I convinced myself that life is not this cruel and someday he will return. It has been fifteen years since his death and he hasn’t returned. I now have to face the fact that he is not ever coming back to me and have to start my mourning process. I do not how I will begin to make sense of my life without the hope I had been harbouring for fifteen years: just to see his face again.
How do I move on? How do I deal with the pain that threatens to destroy every good moment in my life? How do I make the little girl in me understand that Daddy did not walk out her life on purpose? How do I stop the irrational fear of feeling unlovable and constantly panicking that people will walk out of my life? How do deal with my denial that has kept me sane for fifteen years? How do I live knowing I will never see my Daddy’s face again?