Happy Father's Day

When I was a child, I used to hold my father's hand strongly and have walks together. Each time I held his hand, my small hand would disappear in his big, well-shaped hand. His hands were so big that he would never grasp my hand but pass his little finger for me to hold. I was so proud holding his little finger, walking beside him for he was akin to the heroes in the stories I was told. His hands evoked such feelings of protection for they were so big and strong.

When one day he fell weak and sick, I never wanted to let his hands slip though mine. But he never let me. "It hurts", he said. He never told whether it was his hand or inside that hurt. While letting his hands go, it hurt-inside me so deeply.

When I saw him for the last time one year and 3 months ago, his hands were the only things that was left alive from his dead body. They were alive in the sense that they brought me all those beautiful tale-like years of my childhood, our laughters and walks on the coast hand-in-hand. While I was letting his colds hands go forever, it hurt, it really hurt so bad inside. I was so hurt to see my hero lay dead.

Happy Father's Day, Daddy...