"My Recently Late Father"

It’s strange, using the word "late" for someone who was just here.

Just the other day, he was sitting in his usual spot—left corner of the living room, tea in hand, the holy Quran always somehow on his side of the table. He wasn’t loud, never tried to be the center of attention. But when he was there, the house felt full.

Now, the silence echoes where his voice used to be.

My father passed away one weeks ago May11, 2025.

People say it gets easier. They say grief softens with time. But no one tells you how loud the absence is at first. How it creeps into everything—the half-drunk mug on the table, the unwashed clothes folded at the edge of the bed, the way your phone vibrates and for a split second you think it might be him.

But it never is.

His name was Abul kashem. He was -eighty. Not too terribly old. He had a quiet smile and a slow, thoughtful way of speaking. He wasn’t famous or flashy. He didn’t have medals or titles. But to me, he was everything a father should be.

He worked as a dead writer after retired for thirty-five years. He was good in English, Taught me English, though he had a secret love for learning. Sometimes, late at night, I’d catch him reading Text book story to translate me. He never raised his voice unless it was really important. And even then, it was never anger. It was disappointment. And somehow, that always cut deeper.

I saw him the before two last night he passed.

He was tired—exhausted, really—but not complaining of pain, even though I knew the cancer had taken so much out of him. His body had grown weak, his movements slow, but his eyes still held that familiar warmth. He asked me about my job—when I would return to the office, how things were going—and then, as always, he asked about my mother’s health, just like he used to. I hadn’t told him everything, but I smiled and said she would recover soon. He looked at me with that expression I knew so well—a half-smile, half-knowing gaze—the same one he always gave when he knew I was hiding something. It was just an ordinary night.

Early in the morning May 09, 2025, after finishing my prayers, I walked quietly to his room. I wanted to say sorry—to ask Baba to forgive me for the times I had misbehaved. I also wanted to wish him well, and ask, “Shall I go to the office now, Baba?”

He looked at me, tired but calm, and said, “Don’t worry. Go ahead. Just keep me in your heart always.” He smiled gently and added, “I will pray for you and your family, and your children. Always.

Goodbye say to me “Fi Amanillah.”

And maybe that’s what hurts the most.

There was no warning. No countdown. No dramatic final words. Just a simple morning, like so many before it. And then… he was gone.

The funeral was a blur.

Relatives I hadn’t seen in years showed up, offering soft words and tighter-than-necessary hugs. Relatives dropped off food we couldn’t eat. Everyone said the same thing: He was a good man.

And he was.

I find myself talking to him sometimes.

Out loud, when no one’s around.

Like when I finally checked his health condition last week, and found the problem he warned me about. I smiled and said, “Alright, alright, you were right.” And in that moment, I swear, I felt like he was listening.

Grief is a strange companion. Some days, it's a heavy coat I can't take off. Other days, it's just a shadow at my side. Always there. Quiet. Familiar.

My mother’s grief is quieter than mine.

She moves through the house like someone carrying something fragile in her chest. She still makes happens for my father to cry for his last historical life. She doesn’t cry much. But once, I found her in his closet, holding one of his old shirts to her face. And that said more than words ever could.

We talk about him sometimes. Not every day. But enough.

Sometimes it’s funny memories..

Other times, it’s quieter. Like when she simply says, “He would’ve loved this weather,” and then walks away before the silence becomes too much.

A part of me is angry.

Not at him, but at life. At how cruel it is to take someone without warning. At how people keep moving on, going to work, posting discusses, laughing—as if the world didn’t just lose someone it can’t replace.

But another part of me is grateful.

Grateful that I got to say “goodnight” one last time. Grateful that he left without pain, without suffering. Grateful that I knew him—not just as my father, but as a person. A gentle, complex, quietly brilliant person.

I still haven’t moved his slippers from beside the door.

I don’t know why. Maybe because I like pretending he might walk in any minute, scolding me for leaving the lights on, or asking why I haven’t finished that book he gave me.

And maybe, in a way, he is still here.

In the advice that lives in my head.

In the tea I now make the way he used to.

In the man I’m slowly becoming—because of him.

I know, with time, the grief will soften. The edges will blur. I’ll stop expecting to hear his voice when the phone rings. I’ll stop checking the living room to see if he’s there.

But I hope I never stop talking to him.

I hope I never forget the sound of his laughter, or the way he tapped his fingers when he was deep in thought.

And I hope, when I become a father someday, I can be even half the man he was.

Because if I can do that, then he’s not really gone.

He’s still here.

In me.