What should I be feeling at this point of time? Guilt? Happiness? Sadness? Relief? Or a concoction of all the listed emotions? Truth is, I'm happy. I don't feel bogged down by that bundle of sadness that was greying my days anymore. A good improvement.
An aunt passed away yesterday. And as I watched her lying on the floor wrapped in the dismal white cloth that was customary, I flashed back to that October morning when my father was doing the same. One final act to be performed on this earth, to lie there cold and unmoving, as relatives, family and friends paid their last respects. Some with tears streaming down their cheeks, some visibly shaking as they try hard not to succumb to their sorrow, some stoic-faced as if gazing upon a dead body was not their cup of tea but they were forced to do it anyway.
Seeing her for the last time yesterday brought tears to my eyes and I realized that after nearly four months since his passing, I haven't really let my father go.
Is it weird or just plain hypocritical of me to say this? He was never a part of my life. Never. Only a small and insignificant portion. I met him only a handful of times in a year, always a few scant hours with awkward exchanges.
I knew this all along but I was ashamed of admitting it. But who was I ashamed of really? My Mommy? My friends? My family? My Mama? The people who knew I was adopted? Myself mostly. For not being there, for not stepping up, for being timid and useless, for being awkward in all the wrong situations and times, for being scared of responsibility. And where did that get me? No where. All I have to show that I made it is a bucket full of regret. All those times during the first semester of my degree spent with an ominous storm cloud over my head, telling everybody I was sad but I didn't know why, was because I missed my father.
Why though? Even as I'm typing this out my tears are threatening to spill from my eyes. Why can't I just let it go? I never expected his death to affect me profoundly. I always imagined that if one of my biological parents passed, I wouldn't be surprised if I became cold and detached, not caring one way or another.
How wrong that assumption turned out to be. Crying in the backseat of the car as silently as possible as my aunt drove us to the house where we'd recite prayers for my deceased and hoping that when we reached my red eyes would not betray my emotions to anyone.
Death. The final stage of the mortal existence. It is supposed to close a chapter, but more questions spring up, only to start another one. Why do we get so attached to people? Why is it when people die, we cry? Why can't we just live on forever? Why can't losing someone be painless? Why why why.
It's over and done, but the heartache lives on inside.
No matter. Remembrance of the dead will be done but life goes on nonetheless. The happy days are here and a new adventure begins in a week's time. Youth should not be wasted easily. Why nots to replace whys. Optimism and hope reign. In the mean time, I hope this fever, flu and sore throat would go away. Urgh.
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