#6

I am never sure of myself when I start to write anything, only because I have absolutely no idea, what I want to write about. It's much easier to let my emotions flow freely in here, than to attempt to compose a brittle rhyme that is quite the opposite of what my intentions are, or is it not? Hmm... Let's leave that for another day.

I would like to take a moment, and write about my father. I went back to work this week, with the sole purpose of "moving forward" though knowing that "moving forward" implies taking a step toward a different direction perhaps, one that I haven't experienced before... Let's leave that for another day... Piles of crises, piles of crises.

The sadness that had been lingering in the walls of my room, is brushing me gently tonight, as I am writing this, I realized that I have been stressing myself over little things to be angry with, little insignificant things, that were the perfect distractions to not dive into the stillness of pain, to not attempt to melt down that ice; that huge weight pushed against my heart, to penetrate to finally cry over a loss, so significant, that I convinced myself was too painful to endure, better not think it through.

I was frozen, unable to make sense, because this little part of me didn't want to believe, didn't want to submit to reality, didn't want to make peace with it, didn't even want to acknowledge it, I chose to stay frozen, unconscious and hopeless, I didn't want to admit to myself that fear was in control of me, it had taken total control over me, and I surrendered to the nothingness it yielded, refused to unfold the messiness it did my relationships with people, in a time when I was most needed within my family, I chose to hide away, wrapped in a sad existence with a million echoes and cries, ringing in my ears.

I'm grateful for the ones that matter, the ones that stood beside me and held my hand throughout. I am so thankful for the love I found in each and every one of them.

I am learning to take a step ahead, to contemplate a future, that sounds frighting, because I am the master of it now. Decisions were always being made for me, and I never had to worry about a next step, because it was almost always scribbled down with a pencil that wasn't mine. I have this blank white page, and I see potential and drive, determination for this is only the beginning.

For the man that taught me that modesty is rich, compassion is eternal, wisdom lies in a few words, and education is the grace in which we transform into much more. I can never paint a fair portrait, I am for -as long as I live- grateful for him. My father was always my hero in disguise, he was the man on the moon, always away, always working, found in his own mind, always thinking, he was a great intellectual, and an even greater man, an honorable person who devoted his life, to his family and profession, the latter of which he built from the ground up.

Only a few days ago, I was organizing his many documents and financial records, I took it upon myself to make sure that every paper, is in it's rightful file, though I know that it's probable that no one would examine these documents once again, it was almost a duty, to keep it tidy for him, for this is his life's work, his pride, and I wanted to honor that side of my dad. I found so many articles, cut off from several newspapers, this was a habit of his that he kept alive for as long as he lived, he used to call me, to tell me to read this "particularly interesting article" (given that a couple of days earlier there was another one of those exceptionally interesting ones) he loved to read, he especially loved politics and economics, he loved to talk about those -two sides of the same coin-, he could -and would gladly- talk for hours, a point would turn into a discussion, into a rant, into a conversation, that would be picked up the following day, he kept a lot of those articles he enjoyed in one place, where he would sometimes reply to a few, he wrote a few articles himself, where my heart ached a little when I found those articles in his handwriting, that one that only he could actually read.

He had a warm spot for each one of his children, he had such a tender heart that I was only beginning to see in the final months of his life, where illness shown my father exposing all of his emotions, dropping his defenses, and taking pleasure in having all of his family around him, words would never be enough to express how much I miss him: his laughter, the gentle tone and concern in his voice, his compassionate touch, his consistent urge for us, for me specifically, to never let go of my ambitious for marriage, his dreams for us to find our path, to claim academic achievements, his constant reminder to be grateful and to always remember the less fortunate, to help in every little way we can, and to be modest in everything we do, he never once liked the showmanship, a trait we all took from him.

I desire to make him proud, for I know that, for every breath, I am keeping him alive, in memory, I know what he would want for me, what he wouldn't, and I am determined, insh'Allah, to carry on with his words of encouragement, nested and rested inside the circle of memories I have of him, of all of us together, for I hope to meet once again, insh'Allah we will meet once again, to carry with our lessons, and it'd be like the conversation never stopped.

اللهم اغفر لأبى وارحمه 

وعافه واعف عنه 

وانزل على قبره 

الضياء والفسحة والسرور

حتى تبعثه الى جنتك 

يا ارحم الراحمين