Why I Rarely Write About My Father

A few weeks ago I was browsing through old photographs on my cellphone and I came across the photo below of my father. It was at that moment that I realised that I have probably never dedicated a blog post to him alone. If you’ve been following my blog from the start back in 2012, you may have noticed that I barely write about my father unless I am referring to both my parents. Today I would like to explain why…

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My father was an extraordinary man. I cannot begin to put into words how much I admired him (and I still do). I remember how much he used to love watching cartoons with (and without) us. His small eyes would close when he laughed. He loved my mother so much. I was only ten when they died but I remember how he would make fun of my mother’s accent and how she would laugh and blush. My father worked so hard for us. He didn’t always have a lot, but he made sure we had want we needed and more. He was an architect, so Friday nights he would take us for drives in fancy neighbourhoods, showing us ideas for the house he wanted to build for us. No matter how busy he was, I remember seeing him with his camera at school events.  He made everything special for us – Christmas, Easter, birthdays, holiday trips…

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After my parents’ car accident, there was somewhat of a rumour that was going around amongst family friends. I do not know if there is any truth to it, but it really affected my childhood. I had heard that my father hadn’t died instantly like my mother did. It was said that he had woken up in the ambulance and that the moment he saw my mother’s lifeless body, he gasped and took his final breath. I was ten years old when I heard this and it tore me apart. ‘til this very day I wonder what had gone through his mind for those seconds before he died. Would he have survived if he hadn’t seen his beloved wife’s lifeless body?

My father was my hero. He taught me how to love and how to be loved. He showed me what a husband should be to a wife and what a father should be to his children. So why don’t I write about him often? I guess it is because somewhere deep inside of me I still wonder what life would have been like had he not seen my mother’s corpse. Would he have lived?…

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