My Father’s battle against his heart disease was an endless journey back and forth to the hospital. We all watched how he changed from this happy, exuberant man to a delicate being who struggled between doses of medicine and dextrose straps. It’s amazing how one’s fate can wither with every attempt that my siblings and i took to make things better for him and to make us accept that fact that my father’s life was not meant to last forever.

He went away so easily, and yet so peacefully. He looked at my sister one last time, trying to remember who she was and where he was at the moment. As she held him in her arms, he took one wistful breath and finally let go of the pain. I wasn’t there, I wasn’t able to see how he embraced the fulfillment of going home. But I knew that he was happy, and he was finally going to see my mom, whom he hasn’t seen for almost 16 years.

I recognized the feeling, because it was the very same one that I had when mom took the reins and passed away. They both died in the morning, as if fate motioned them to do so. I guess the only difference is, I was a child when my mother died, but now that I am all grown up, the questions about death seemed endless. When I stood inside the morgue and silently observed the mortician remove the blanket from his face, I was suddenly drawn closer and closer to the man lying there. A few hours ago at the hospital he was reaching for my hand and repeatedly told me how he badly wanted a glass of Sprite and a bite of Dunkin Donuts. And now I curse myself badly for not giving him what he requested for, as I gaze quietly at his solemn face, and the coldness that used to be my father. I gently touched his face, smoothed the hair on his forehead, and leaned over to kiss him goodbye.

His death was a whirlwind. I matured overnight and became engrossed with the numbness that was over powering me. The funeral almost felt like a dream, almost as if the truth was not being allowed to embed within us. But when it all ended, we were all brought back o earth and accept that realization that my father was no longer with us.

I can never understand how people learn to go on living their lives after the death of a loved one. !6 years ago when my mother died, it all felt the same for an entire year. We groped in the dark, fought fervently to survive, and yet we did. When we lose someone, are our minds pre-conditioned to accept this, or is it because we fall back into our normal routine that eventually we only remember them when the situation arises?

Sometimes I still sit alone, thinking of how my dad used to be. How he made us laugh with his silly antics, or how he was cruel to my curfew when I was a teenager. But when I look at my siblings and at myself, I understand that all he did for the 61 years of his life was to make us reach this point of maturity. I know that he was this bond that glued us together, that no matter how busy we were with our work, or families, he was that person that made us stronger. It is a renowned cliche, that we value a person at his best when we are no longer with them. But it is quite true, because at this moment we see all the beautiful things this person shared with us, and how they make a difference, no matter how big or small it is.

Every night I feel subdued. I lay at night and ask myself still why he left so soon. That I would have wanted him to see me succeed, or that I would have wanted him to walk me down the aisle one day. I know he would have wanted to as well, but life does play with us sometimes. That maybe I continue to fail understanding the reasons of him dying, but he was ready altogether. He was ready because he knew he did everything in his lifetime to be a good father to all of us. He knew that it was time for him to rest because we have unknowingly reached it all. That he was proud of us.

We only share seconds, minutes, hours with someone. We may not be the best to anyone, or we may not give to them what they expect. Growing up I felt as if I have not returned every beautiful thing that my father sacrificed for me. But that is what makes him noble. Because he never asked for anything in return. He understood me, more than I understood him.

I look at an old picture of him, and smile at how he not only gave me life, but helped me understand what living is all about. They say to only cherish the good memories, but I chose to carry with me all the memories he left us. That his weakness does not mirror cruelty as a parent, or his moods as reflection of his anger. He was only human, and he lived his life the best way he could, just like the way he would all want us to do.

Memories of my father is not only a way for me to remember all the laughter, the tears, the sacrifices, but it remains as an inspiration for meto continue living and loving life, just like the way he did.