Dear Dad,
For nearly a month now, I’ve told myself many times that as soon as my eyes recover and I can type again, the first words I write must be for you.
I remember the moment you hurriedly sent me into the elevator to prepare for surgery, your voice flustered, with no time to say anything because the doctor called so urgently.
I was wheeled out from the operating room, sitting in a wheelchair, and the nurse brought me down. The elevator doors opened, and I saw you were there waiting. My heart went out to you, Dad, as you hurriedly took the wheelchair from the nurse’s hands and gently pushed me along.
In the days after surgery, I had to rely on your help many times. My eyes were bandaged shut, and I couldn’t see the path, feeling insecure and terribly afraid of stumbling. But you were by my side, guiding me, telling me to just hold onto your hand and walk in the direction you led.
“Don’t worry, it’s clear ahead. Keep walking.”
It seemed like such a long time ago since I first learned to walk, and now I got to hold your hand again as you showed me the way.
…
Dad, I want to cry.
I want to cry, not because I’m sad, but because that feeling is so sweet and warm. A simple yet profoundly deep flavour of familial love.
I want to cry because, after all the years of struggling in life, I’m once again the little girl back in your arms, small, fragile and needing support.
I want to cry because when I was in the most pain and needed the most help, you were the first one by my side as quickly as you could.
I want to cry because our father-daughter relationship had many disagreements and clashes in my teenage years, making me feel dejected, thinking you didn’t love me.
I want to cry because I’m overwhelmed realising that you love me more than anyone else.
I want to cry because now I deeply know that you are the most wonderful, greatest, most patient man this life has given me.
Dad, as I write this, I’m crying.
The doctor said I shouldn’t cry with my condition. But how can I not? I was born a highly sensitive person, yet also struggled to express my true feelings, just like you.
The genes passed down aren’t just physical traits.
Your emotions also run deep and remain bottled up. Weighed down by old stuff, old stories. Never spoken. Not for lack of want but lack of habit and means. So unvoiced. Never expressed.
But ultimately, we’ve dared to express our hearts.
I say I love you by saying: “I need you.”
And you say you love me by your words: “I’m here.”
…
I’ve been on a long journey, only to feel more intensely the sedimentation of time.
Dad at 11 years old, standing by the rice paddies. A young teenager aged too soon, his hardened face the pillar of the family after my grandfather passed away.
20 years old, going alone to the capital for university, studying while making ends meet.
33, marrying mom. In the wedding photo, neither of you smiled, and a hint of sadness on your faces. You’ve lived together for over 30 years now.
45, leaving the government job to start your own company. Nearly 20 years of hustle, all the hardships and toils you weathered yourself.
55, your hair thinning more, hands dotted with age spots, your tired expression slowly revealing loneliness.
62, no longer as robust as before, but still very lucid. As if realising you shouldn’t live quietly anymore, you’ve opened your heart more. Care more for mom. Spend more time with us.
We’ve been on a long journey, only to recognize our love.
…
Oh, Dad.
That feeling is so wonderful, knowing I’m immersed in so much of your love.
That feeling is so wonderful, that after 30 years of ups and downs – scoldings, hurts, resentments, arguments – our relationship has truly mended.
That feeling is so wonderful, understanding I have one more persuasive reason to keep living – to be your amazing little girl. Despite the current difficulties, I will try to live well.
I am healed now. And I know you are healed, too.
Image: Unsplash
Love you. More than I can say or write. Words only become superfluous.
Proud to be your little girl,
Jasmine.
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