An Overdue Hug

A massive rock struck my chest. The cruel reality of being halfway across the world from home suddenly hit hard. “Why can’t I be there right now?” The youngest brother and sister had just called, “Buwa was sleeping. Mom called me to the room. We came by ambulance to the hospital…,” He went on. My heart sank. I knew it before he could put it into words.

“I want to be give you one big hug and then only I wish to go,” Dad said.

“Dad, stop talking like that. Nothing will happen to you,” I said. He told me that just about five months ago. I planned to catch up with him after graduation. We were so close. I thought I had time.

“Please, wait for me. I want to see my dad one last time,” I demanded.

Yes, I am not the son who is celebrated and expected per social norms. But I am his daughter. I do feel the pain. I am no less because I am a daughter.

At the airport, feeling numb at times and overwhelmed at other times, I felt like a dummy going through the flight procedures — still trying to process the truth. I was not ready. I did not know how to do that.

I was going home to tell Dad my last goodbye. I will witness my mom at her saddest and weakest times. My suitcase felt heavier than ever.

I had no gifts for anyone — but — myself, my heavy, broken, confused heart.

“Is that him?” Asked the mortuary security guard at the hospital as he slid out a wrapped body like a commodity in a big cold drawer.