Dada,
Remember how I’d come say goodnight to you every night, and you’d hug me, put your hand on my head and kiss it? I still say goodnight to everyone else, but my order changed. It used to be you, Dad, Nanu then Mom. Now, it’s Dad, Nanu, Mom. When I’m in my room before I go to sleep, I look at the photo of you on the wall and say goodnight.
There’s no hug or hand and kiss on the head, it’s just me staring at a frame, hoping you hear me.
Remember how you’d pick me up from school in your blue Lexus 350 and take me on a drive around the neighborhood? You called it “a chucker.” I learned how to drive in that car, but then Dad bought me a new one last year since it was getting old.
I didn’t want to let go of the car, but it wasn’t working right anymore. I didn’t want to let go of you, but you weren’t living anymore.
The day you left, I had to adjust to a life without you. A life where walking into your room meant seeing half the bed untouched. A life where the Polo mints in our pantry will forever remain because they’re yours from four years ago, and no one has it in them to throw them away. A life where people are entering our family who don’t know you, your smile and the sound of your voice. A life with no you — a life where it’s as if you never existed.
With the adjustment came a realization. I could either live a life full of adjusting to what it’s like without you, or I could find a way to make everyone see how alive you are through everything I do.
I tell everyone I love them whenever I can because you used to tell me every day. That’s why I go on chuckers every time I miss you. That’s why I visit your grave the most, so I can talk to you and update you. I know you’re watching over us, and I hope I get to see you again; that’s why I didn’t say goodbye.
It took me 1,461 days, but I realized you didn’t leave forever; I never said goodbye, but I can say goodnight. I can’t find it in myself to close the chapter of you, so instead, I’m holding onto it and choosing to say goodnight — just like old times.
You’re not here to hug me and put your hand on my head, but I put white roses on your grave every time I visit you. It’s never any other flower, always the same. It’s to symbolize that no matter when I come or how long it’s been, the foundation of my love for you will always stay the same — the flower will always stay the same.
Even though I know you won’t ever walk through our garage door again, I’ll stay waiting because all I want is for you to come home.
In the meantime, as I lay the roses I wish I could’ve placed in your hands on your grave, I’ll continue to admire their beauty. Your life is as beautiful as a rose, but I’m left to hold onto the thorns.
Goodnight Dada,
Your Apa
