It's been two years. And one word other than his name which signifies his position over me would flood me with memories. It's the lotto numbers that I would list every 9:00. It's the back-scratcher that would always find its way under the bed. It's the serious conversations that would make me afraid, understand things better, or both. But that same word would also fill myself with so much love and affection. It's the ice cream in the fridge for every occasion. It's the key that would always let us in the bedroom when Mom locks us out. It's the 5 o'clock shadow that would sting my cheeks. It's the long walk from the dormitory to the school he always wanted me to be in.
In my constant search for love two images would suffice: him hugging my mother on a daybed without either of them saying a word, and him crying at a hospital bench when she got confined for a complication caused by a disease they both share.
I see him in nearly everything even when I close my eyes.
They say that we fear death because we don't want to be forgotten. But how could we when he has left us with enough to fill each day to the brim? So Daddy, don't you fret.
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