Letter to Papa - 2

Dear Papa,

This is my second letter to you. Did you receive my first? I hope you did. I hope that wherever you are, there are computers. That my letter has gotten to you in the netherworlds, somehow, someway.

This morning, I woke up at ten. I’ve been waking up very late nowadays. The Boyfriend tells me that it’s because I’m in so much emotional pain that I need to heal. Sleep, apparently, is one of the ways to dull the pain, much like alcohol. But since I don’t drink, sleep’s the next best alternative.

You know, when you awake from deep slumber, you tend to have this haze clouding your mind for a few seconds before it clears, right? Every morning, for, maybe ten seconds, I forget that you’ve already passed on. In those ten seconds, it feels as if your death was a nightmare. As if I’d still see you, at 6.30p.m., when you come back from work. Then, it hits me like a ton of bricks, and I fall back into bed, burying my head in the pillow, willing reality away.

I found a note written by Mommy on the dining table, this morning. It said, very simply, “Buy newspaper for Papa”. She included a dollar. So, I went downstairs, got the newspapers and left it on your chair. I hope you are able to read them. In the past, you’d access Malaysiakini online in place of print news. But, that news website requires a paid account. We don’t know your password, so the other choice is to buy you newspapers.

Hm. There are so many pears in the fridge. We bought them during the wake, as offerings. If you were still around, you’d admonish us, “I’m the only one eating all these fruit. Why aren’t you all eating?” I must start eating those pears. They’re going to go bad soon.

You always said, “Eat in moderation” but didn’t take your own advice. Remember all those nights when you’d hunt down peanuts and biscuits in the storeroom? “Eat for fun only,” you told me, as you popped another peanut into your mouth. I would just simply shake my head.

I will never hear you say, “Wen, eat apple.” The apple you’d washed and given me a week ago still sits on my desk. I’m sure it’s rotten by now, but I still stare at it, and remember you. I’ll never hear you ask me, “Wen, do you have enough money to tide you over this month?” I’ll never hear you scold me again. I will never see you hanging clothes along the corridor, or sunning our blankets and pillows because "it’s so sunny and hot outside today". I’ll never walk out of my bedroom and catch you watching The Blue Planet (oh yeah, the Blue Planet’s on today. I told Mommy, and she said to switch on the T.V. at 9p.m. for you).

I’ll never see you smile again, except in the photograph beside the altar. Nor will I be able to hear you laugh. I’ll never be able to discuss politics with you over the dinner table, nor will I be able to go to you for advice. I’ll never be able to cook for you, and make you try my charred cooking. I’ll never, ever, hear you ask me once more, “Wen, what do you want for breakfast tomorrow?” There were so many, so many, so many things I took for granted when you were alive. Seriously, Papa, I think you spoilt me. I proudly proclaim to people (yes, proudly) that I’m a Daddy’s girl, and that you spoilt me beyond belief by doing all sorts of things to make me feel loved.

To be honest, I don’t want to forget you. I don’t want to get over my grief. I want to keep your memory imprinted in my mind forever. I’m afraid that with the passage of time, inevitably, all these little anecdotes will disappear. I know, I know… People move on, and life must go on.

Still… It’s so painful. I want to sleep, and have this terrible grief gone when I wake up. Sort of like Sleeping Beauty, perhaps. Except, I'm no Beauty. Now. I know, at the back of my mind, that I’m supposed to pull myself together with the determination that has seen me through my challenging years of education. But I just can’t seem to muster up all that strength.

You wouldn’t want to see me cry, night after night. I know that. You’d want me to get on with my life, I know that.

So, although I don’t feel like stepping out of the house at all, I will do so tomorrow to meet my friend for lunch.

I confess, Papa, these days, I forget the passage of time. It’s Tuesday today. But, to me, time stopped the day you died. It’s Sunday. It’s always Sunday.

I love you, Papa. I love you. I’m sorry I never said it before. But, believe me, no one, other than Mommy, loves you more than I.

I love you.