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2013-08-06 - 11:52 a.m.

It was another Saturday�s twilight after work. The traffic was bad � and it had gotten worse under the rain. The sky was soulless grey, the colour of my mood that day.

My friend � a colleague at work too � and I went to Plaza Festival, waiting for the end of our fasting day. I was too tired to go home right away. It�s always a long journey.

After Magrib (our twilight prayer), we were talking over caramel latte. (I had broccoli cream soup too, which was a weird combination.) Somehow, out of the blue, our talk turned into more serious topics. Knowing what had happened to his father, I began telling him more about mine.

More specifically, I told him about those three nightmares about that. They still haunt me sometimes.

The first dream was about the giant grey bus. I walked home one night from work to find my family waving goodbye to Dad on the bus. Ma told me that they were taking him to �a better place�.

Then I started chasing that bus as it was rolling away, leaving me behind and taking Dad with them. I ran and ran screaming for him until I woke up sweating cold.

The second dream was when I reverted back to my seven-year-old self. As a little girl, I held Dad�s hand as we walked down the garden full of people, all faceless strangers. The sun was shining brightly and we were all dressed in whites. I didn�t remember if I�d ever had or worn something so immaculate.

Then two mysterious-looking men in whites walked up to us. Dad let go of my hand as he let them near. They had a quick, short talk. I couldn�t hear what they were saying to each other.

At last, Dad turned to me and smiled. He gently told me he needed to go with them � and that I should start looking for Ma.

�But I want to go with you,� I pleaded in my little girlish voice. When Dad insisted that I do as he said, I started tugging at his sleeve until one of the men there glared at me and yelled:

�Back off! It�s not your turn yet!�

That too, had woken me up in cold shiver. The third dream was a bit milder, but somehow much creepier:
It was morning. Dad and I were alone at home. We were sitting at the dining table in the living room, drinking our coffee. (We�d never done that when he was healthy.)

Dad was well-dressed like he was going to work. He looked radiant with joy.

�I�m going on a long holiday,� he announced that to me. After finishing his coffee, he got up and said goodbye to me. He walked out through the open front door. The sun was shining brightly outside; it looked as if he was walking into the light.

I noticed that he�d left his bag on the chair next to his earlier. I quickly got up, took the bag, and started outside to catch up with him.

�Dad! You left your-�

He was already gone, nowhere in sight.

My friend looked at me. There was a moment of awkward silence between us.

�When you had those dreams,� he said carefully, �your subconscience was telling you that you weren�t ready.�
I didn�t need to tell him that he was right. My silence, my stiff expression had been a dead giveaway.

�Do you know why my father had only lasted a month after the stroke before he finally passed away?� he asked. When I shrugged, he went on,�Every morning, I prayed to God to give him the easiest way out; either heal him if it wasn�t his time, take him peacefully if it was.�

�That�s what I keep asking Him,� I told him. �Friday would be even better, they say.�

Do I sound awfully mean here? I don�t want him to die. None of us do. But I don�t want him to suffer anymore. Is it so bad?

�Now you�re being too specific with your request to Him,� my friend pointed out. �Just do what I did and stick to it. No need to mention Friday and let�s just hope for the best.�

�Do I sound awful, wishing for...that?� I realised that I was holding back my tears.

�We�re only human.� He shrugged. �We only do all we can, the best we know how.�

I�d never cried that hard on my way home that night, while taking an ojek (motorcycle taxi). The rain was pouring down, covering my unstoppable streams of tears. Pretty cliche, eh?

Even if I had, I couldn�t remember when. It wasn�t the kind of noisy howl you make when you can no longer help yourself. It was half-silence with muffled, squeaky whimper. It was the kind that suffocated you, as if your chest had suddenly weighed a ton and were about to burst. It hurt. It was killing you inside.

God, forgive me...I�m so helpless here...I don�t know what else to do...This feels endless...

Daddy, I�m so sorry...I�m so tired...I don�t know what else to do...I keep on trying to do everything I can, but it�s still not good enough...

Will it always be like this?

--- // ---

�Hi.�

He looked up at me, sitting on his wheelchair. He gave me a half-smile as his shaky left hand reached out to me. I took it.

�I�m home.�

It didn�t take long for him to start bursting in tears again, like he often does nowadays. The only thing he can do to express his now unspoken feelings.

Sometimes I wish I could fake my expression better � and that he didn�t have to read me so well...

�It's okay. I�m just tired, Dad. It�s been a long day, as always...�

R.

(Jakarta, 16/7/2013 � 5:30 am)

 

 

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