The World Has Moved on But I Am Still Here
I miss his voice but I am starting to forget the way he sounded.
OverFlow is what happens when I overthink, overflow, and over-everything. When my feelings have nowhere to go, I write about them. Full disclosure: This is something I wrote in October 10, 2019. My dad has again been on my mind. I chose this piece to share with you because it was his birthday last March 20 and I felt like celebrating it with a newsletter all about him.
I can joke about you now. My loud belly laughs and wheezing giggles distract everyone from the fact that every time I am reminded of you I still cry.
“ANOTHER DEAD DAD REFERENCE?” I yell at the screen from time to time, incredulous and exasperated.
I chase these moments with exaggerated sighs and eye rolls when other people are around to lessen the awkwardness. These past few months I went through several seasons of Midsomer Murders. A lot of deceased fathers, regrettably.
I listen to the Beatles, the Dave Clark Five, the Shadows, the Ventures. I watch the handful of videos of you playing the guitar and curse your friends for not pushing you to sing on camera. I miss your voice but I am starting to forget it like I eventually forgot Lola’s.
When I am in pain or feeling sick, I feel different.
“Ugh,” I would say. “Take this cup away from me…. and let me die!”
This would be a Jesus Christ Superstar reference. This would also be not an exaggeration. I have learned to look forward to death because it would mean being with you.
Did you notice that no one talks about you anymore? Except for me, that is. Maybe they knew a different side of you—one that’s easier to forget. Maybe they are quiet and private in their grief. Maybe I am alone in wanting, wishing, hoping to this day for you to appear in the shadows, in broad daylight, whenever.
Why did I even look at you after you passed? Why did I hold on to your ashes throughout the ride home from the crematorium? Why put me through that sort of punishment without a proper haunting?
I remember you when I am awake. I remember you when I am asleep. I see your face in mine. I wear your jacket when I am cold and when I am not.
Why did we never record a song together? Why can I only remember a handful of impromptu duets? Why didn’t I bring your guitar with me when I moved? Why can’t I write new music to deal with the pain of losing you?
In a parallel timeline, you are still alive and cancer-free.
You know my number and call me once a week to complain about your friends and your weight gain and your white hair. You tell me about your new guitar solo and a gig coming up. I tell you not to wear a fedora, for the love of God. In a parallel timeline, I hear you laugh over the background drone of jeepneys and electric fans. A dog barks in the distance.
In a parallel timeline, you are still alive and that is all that matters. I will keep on living to dream each night. I will keep on sleeping in an attempt to slip into a universe that is not mine.
I will keep on trying to get to you.
Don’t wait up. I’ll wake you when I get there and I’ll make you a cup of coffee.
If you’ve enjoyed reading this or something else I’ve written, please consider buying me a coffee. ☕ Thank you!