BABA — a remembrance

22 years is a long time when you’re missing someone,

Sporadic memories fly by, of how my father used to keep diaries — journaling his mood, thoughts, and the backdrop.

There were piles of them in the house, stashed here and there.

The house was big, inviting, and homely.

I thought of keeping them close, to my heart and self.

But then I didn’t.

And now I’m desolate, screaming blame silently to myself.

From a hollowed-out decanter, I pour regrets down on me.

Thought they were “too heavy” (literally) when I packed my bags and left the country, perhaps for good.

My hands now shake to even begin to imagine writing a piece -

Of how much I miss them. Him.