My Dad, My Home!

 

An Ode to My Dad

I never imagined I would have to write about my dad in the past tense. Just days ago, he was here, and now, somehow, I am trying to put a lifetime of memories into words.

I wasn't ready. None of us were. His passing was a shock, and I still don't quite know how to make sense of a world in which he isn't here.

The usually strong, outwardly composed Nancy couldn't hold it together this time. The walls I normally keep around myself simply couldn't contain the pain. I know I am supposed to be strong for Mom, my children and the rest of the family, but nope. This time, I couldn't.

Because losing Dad isn't just losing my father. It is losing the person who has been part of almost every version of me — the little girl who worshipped him, the teenager who annoyed him, the daughter who could always turn to him, and the woman I became who somehow never quite stopped being his little girl.

My dad was an exceptional man. Anyone who knew him, even casually, would probably tell you the same. But to me, he was something more.

He was my first hero.

As a little girl, I literally worshipped him. I admired everything about him. He was, in my eyes, the coolest dad in the world.

Even when I did something wrong, he wouldn't judge me. He would take my side first and later, when we were alone, tell me, “What you did wasn't okay.” He knew how to correct me without making me feel small. With Dad, I always knew I had someone in my corner.

He had a wonderful smile and a laugh that could fill a room. He loved making fun of us by singing songs and had a wonderfully goofy side that not everyone got to see. I have heard stories of him pranking my aunt with crackers near her ears. I can still imagine the mischief in his face.

With my children and my niece, that same childlike side came alive. He would dance with them, tickle them, roll around and play. He was never too old to be silly. To them, he was simply the best granddad.

And I never quite stopped being a child around him either. Even a few days before he passed away, I was sitting on his lap, pinching and tickling him. At the time, it was just another ordinary moment between a daughter and her dad. I didn't know I would later hold on to it so tightly.

I was still his little girl.

Dad loved football. He played matches and had quite a few fans. I was his hardcore fan, by the way!

He loved bikes and cars too. Over the years, there were different versions of Javas and Bullets in our lives.

We grew up in the plantations, quite far from town. Whenever Dad went into town to run errands, he would return with something for us — a KitKat or a Dairy Milk. It was a small ritual, but those little chocolates have somehow become enormous memories.

He was that kind of father. His love often came disguised as ordinary things.

He was a hands-on dad too. He dressed us for school, fed us, packed our things and was a great help to Mom. He was part of all the little things that made up our everyday lives.

He was also the bridge that connected us to people. Dad kept in touch. He remembered people, asked about their lives and made an effort to stay connected. Friends, relatives and acquaintances mattered to him. He didn't allow relationships to quietly disappear.

Perhaps that was because Dad had almost no ego.

Zero ego.

He didn't hold grudges. Even when someone was against him, he could still be kind to them. He had an unusual ability to let things go. If someone needed help and he could do something about it, he rarely said no.

He simply helped.

He loved my mom deeply too. They were completely different people, and yet somehow they were made for each other. They had their differences and their little arguments, but underneath it all was a deep love and understanding.

They were different in so many ways, but somehow, they just worked.

Dad was Mom's person.

He was our person too.

If something troubled any of us, he would stand with us and make sure we were okay. Somehow, as long as Dad was around, there was a feeling that things could be sorted out.

That feeling is difficult to describe until it is gone.

Dad lived like a king.

Not because of wealth or possessions, but because of the people around him. His children, grandchildren, friends and family were his wealth.

He spent his life building relationships, helping people, bringing them together and making everyone feel that they belonged.

He was rich in people.

And perhaps that is the finest way to measure a life — not by what a person accumulated, but by how many people felt that their lives were better because he was in them.

Looking back, I realise that my dad's greatness was never one grand gesture. It was in the accumulation of small things.

The chocolates. The football. The Javas and Bullets. The songs and laughter. The way he loved people. The way he loved Mom. The way he played with his grandchildren. The way he forgave. The way he made people feel at home.

That was Dad.

And that is what I will carry with me.

I wish I had more time. More conversations, more hugs, more silly moments, more days of sitting on his lap and annoying him like I always did.

But perhaps that is what grief does. It makes you look back at ordinary moments and realise they were never ordinary at all.

These are the things I will carry with me.

I don't know what life will look like without him. I don't know who I will turn to when my first instinct is to tell Dad something. I don't know how long it will take for this absence to stop feeling so strange.

Maybe it never will.

But I know this much.

I was incredibly lucky to have him.

Lucky to have been his daughter. Lucky to have been loved by him. Lucky to have known what it felt like to have someone so completely in your corner.

No matter how old I grew, I was always his little girl.

Because Dad wasn't just the person who raised me.

He was my home.

The place I could return to without explaining myself. The person who made the world feel a little less frightening, simply by being there.

And now I have to learn how to carry home with me.

Thank you, Dad, for the life you gave us, the people you brought into our lives, the love you left behind, and all those little pieces of yourself that I will find in the years ahead.

You were my first hero.

You were my safest place.

You were my home.

You were simply Dad.

And I love you.

I always have.

I always will.

Some stories are written with words.

Some are written with a lifetime of love.

This one is for you, Dad.

Until my next scribbling,

Nancy Kavin.