A Letter To My Father

I promised myself I would not cry as I watched them lower the coffin into the grave. I knew many eyes were on me; I had heard the whispers.

“How can she come back after leaving him alone for so long?”

“She neglected him, and now she is back?”

“I hope his spirit torments her.”

You can imagine crying in front of such relatives and friends, people whose sole aim of visitation was not to mourn the dead, but to watch me crumble.

I thanked the pastors and the few relatives who came over to greet me. As dusk began to settle in, everyone packed their bags and left. I sighed, taking one last look at the grave, then booked a ride home.

The house was still the same old boring structure. It had been one of the points of our many arguments. Give the house to developers, I had said. Take your cut and buy a smaller home in the countryside.

My father’s anger would rise to the roof. He would rather die than sell the inheritance he had claimed.
Walking in, I was immediately greeted by the smell of books and ink. He had been an avid writer and an avid reader. I wasn’t much of that. I had taken up a career in sales and never looked back, chasing one big client after another.

I stopped by the family picture on the mantelpiece - Mom, Dad, and me. Mom had never stayed long in our lives. She left us early, during my teenage years, and we never truly recovered, each of us mourning her loss independently.

But I remember those years when laughter called us by name and happiness rang in every tone.
Mother would organize family picnics right in our backyard garden, with music loud enough to spike the tempers of our neighbours, who would threaten to call the police. Dad would walk over with a peace offering, baked chicken and pies.

Eventually, they would calm down. Mom never stopped playing her music until she was stopped by the great force called cancer, and she went away, taking her music with her.

The realization that I was alone sank deep. At least when Dad was here, we checked up on each other even if our calls often ended in arguments.

He always wanted me home, to take over the bookstore. There are things you cannot trade, he would say. Your family. The bond you share with them. They are priceless.
I would laugh it off. You’re a healthy old man, I would reply. Until cardiac arrest took him away at seventy-one, leaving me alone with his memories.

I moved to his bedroom and sat on the floor, the very spot where he had been found. He had been arranging books to donate to the local library. I picked up one of the books on his bedside table. It was open. He had been writing in it.

“She shines like the daffodil and flutters high like the eagle.
I lifted her from the floor as she ran to me, her smile, my very joy.
I can live on, striving one more day, so she may forever radiate.
I hope in the years to come she will stay with me,
and I will hold her hands as she walks down the aisle…”
I paused.

I had vehemently sworn to him that I never wanted to be encumbered by marriage. I needed to start my own company before thirty. I was twenty-nine and far from that goal.
I flipped to the front page. My fingers shook as I read the title.

Tales of Judith.
He had been writing our life story.

Burying my head on the table, I cried. Father, Judith has come home at last but she came just a little too late.
I picked up the pen and scribbled the next line:
“Your legacy she will uphold, and your name she shall honour.”
I was an unfilial daughter, but even so, I will never forget your love.