Out of all the days of the week, Sunday reminds me of my father the most. We always woke up to the sound of him noisily making something in the kitchen, using every single surface in the room while at it. Daddy was such a messy cook, but we wouldn’t dare complain lest he stopped cooking up his Sunday storm altogether. His cooking style was minimal; as little spices as he could get away with. And don’t get me started on those roasts that took the whole day to get ready. He was always so proud of his finished work. And I loved how my opinion was so valued considering I am the resident foodie and the pickiest eater you’ll ever meet.
So today, being a Sunday, was really hard on all of us. We keep looking at the gate whenever we hear a sound , hoping he’ll have come back. My brain has completely refused to accept the fact that we left him in a garden somewhere far away, and that we will never see him again. It all happened so fast. And I for one haven’t had the time to process it. I can’t even stand to look at a picture of him, as it has me going back to the moment I heard the words, “He’s gone. Daddy is gone,” and then slowly going through everything else that happened since then. Death is such a strange and unnatural thing. Do people sometimes get used to it? Do you move on?
I feel like my heart breaks a little more every day. And I don’t even know how to express that. Life seems to have moved on. The sun is still rising and setting as usual; birds chirping, music playing… Yet I’m still crying, whenever no one can see me. I want my daddy back 😦