The morbid ambience made the parlor involuntarily faint, with only the sobbing of the young lady to be heard. I walked slowly to the front and took a seat close to the coffin.

The scenario brought back memories of a similar occasion eight years ago when my own father had to be kept in a coffin, lifelessly in peace. That was the last time I saw him before he was cremated.

Unforgettable memories of my father came through. When I was a kid, I slept in one room with my siblings and inside a mosquito net. Every night, father would come to our room to check on the mosquitos that flirted with our flesh, trying to find a good meal out of our blood. Most of the time he managed to kill one or two mosquitos.

Father wasn’t physically affectionate but he showed his warmth in so many other ways. Every Saturday, he took us to the dentist for our root canal fixtures and waited for hours until we were done. He taught us how to speak English perfectly, making sure our grammar was perfect.

Every morning, my father would remind me to wash my face, brush my teeth, comb my hair and wear slippers as I walked out of the house.

Like most fathers, my father worked very hard to make ends meet. He made us understand the value of money and honest living. I was taught not to waste anything. One of the memorable values my father taught me was dignity. He always used to say it came with honesty and good deeds.

As I reached my late teens, father would always censor my outfits before I went out. No short skirts or shorts were allowed when going out with friends. Thanks to a strict father, my line of suitors didn’t dare even call the home telephone. I never had a steady boyfriend who played with my emotions.

My father didn’t speak too much but when he did it was always about the past, which would get him annoyed. He narrated stories about his life as a single man and the people he met when he married my mother. Father never got over his in-laws, which still makes me laugh at times. Then I realized he had his bitter moments as well but he was never too vocal about it.

Whenever I go back home to my birthplace, father always had an ear for my complaints but would just advise me to be patient. I would always leave him with a heavy heart but father would fill my luggage with small gifts.

A tap on my shoulder from a lady offering condolences brought me back to my senses. She whispered in my ears, “No words will ever ease the pain of losing a loved one, but rest assured, time will heal.”

I took a deep breath. I felt the young lady’s pain, which was tantamount to a red ant’s sting, constantly piercing. It was a prickle to watch another father taken away from his daughter’s future.

I called myself lucky because I lost my father when I was middle-aged, already mature. I could just imagine what kind of life the young lady would have as she goes back to her premises of comfort, which may seem meaningless with her father gone.

I looked at the solitary faces of the people surrounding the shiny white coffin. At that moment I longed to be by myself in my own leisure of thoughts and tears.

I stood up from my seat. The weather was gloomy and rain started pouring. I thought how it correlated with the kind of feelings that haunted my emotions at that moment. Like the heavy downpour of rain, my tears flowed, unabashed of the people around me.

No matter what age, a woman is always her father’s little girl. He is probably the most imperfect person in the world but no one can replace his kind of love and affection. Not even our sons or husbands will be able to substitute a father’s love, believe me. It is a priceless treasure. Rest in peace pak, I hope you meet my father. You will both surely get along.

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