Almost there.
I woke up. There were flowers, and that sweet scent of candles burning. I can hear the soft music of a guitar being played. Everything was white and fading shadows. My body felt so tired. I remember.
Almost there.
I watched my Dad as he lay peaceful and still. His eyes were closed, and I kept seeing in my mind how keen they were when open, so filled with wonder and kindness, and pride and contentment. His body was so still, and I kept remembering the times when I would see him work with so much skill, dance with so much life, speak with so much wisdom. I remember how warm his hands were, always there to give an encouraging pat, telling me everything will be alright.
Almost there.
I followed him, as we passed slowly through familiar streets. Above us, the morning sky was dark and gloom. The sound of gold and silver, beneath our feet. The air was biting cold. When it began to gently rain, I whispered a prayer.
Almost there.
I heard my voice rang through the little church. The echoes stirred across hallowed walls, to the ears of the people quietly listening, to the spaces of my hollowed heart. The ink on the sheets I was holding was blotched, the paper slightly crumpled. I wanted to make them see. I wanted them to remember.
Almost there, Dad.
In the place of grass and trees, and stillness, I saw my Dad one last time. The tears no longer came. I wanted so much to smile, but it was hard when your heart kept breaking with longing. I watched them close the coffin. I watched as they rested my Dad far beneath the earth. I closed my eyes, and remembered him say goodbye.
We’re here, Daddy. Rest now. You’re home.
- - - - - - -
Three days before Christmas, I buried my father. He died on a hospital bed with two gunshot wounds on his body. He still lives in my heart. He is always a hero for me. Now, he is a hero for everyone too.
