I miss him.
Everytime I remember him, never a moment goes that I do not wish it was someone else who died, not him. It could have been my mother’s brother, or his wife. It could have been someone else who deliberately made other people miserable. It did nto have to be him. But he was the lucky one who got chosen. Three years has passed, and I still haven’t completely gotten over that.
Maybe I never will. Maybe I will always question the heavens why it had to be him. He could have lived longer, happier, healthier. He could have made his peace with people. He could have created so many other works of art. But he was taken away from this world, and everything else became different.
My father may not have been the perfect father; he was far from it. But I know he tried his best, and he loved my brother and me, which, I think, is all the matter. I learned a lot from him. Without realizing it, he taught me everything I needed to know about life, its hardships, its cruelty, and its beauty.
Every now and then, I always have something I want to tell him or share with him. Unfortunately, I just have to comfort myself with the faith the he is still watching over me, wherever he may be. I may not be able to talk to him, but he still knows what’s going on in my life right now. Still, that’s not enough sometimes.