the deadliness of dying and my dad’s best friend

18:18. A Whatsapp from my dad. “Smiler, he’s deteriorating fast. I think this might be your last chance.”

18:19. I reply. “I’m ready.”

19:43. A car ride over. “He’s not going to look like you remember, but he’s in there. He’s not hurting. He’s just… slipping away.”

19.43. I nod, silently, because how are you supposed to speak around a lump of cement?

20:02. An unforgettable sight. “Well if it isn’t the second most good-looking member of the family - after me of course.” I wink. It slaps back the tears. “Don’t tell dad.”

20:02. My dad says to his brother, “hey mate, Em’s here. She’s got something she wants to read to you.”

20:02. My uncle says nothing. He can’t. Cancer has stolen his voice.

20:02. My dad smiles at me gently, then nods. “Go on,” he mouths to me.

20:03. I shuffle in my seat. My heart is weighing me down. “It’s a load of crap Uncle A, but you’d expect nothing less from me, eh?” I joke. “It’s just a little poem I wrote, nothing special. Actually, very special, because it’s a me and you memory. That okay?”

20:04. Nobody responds to my question.

20:04. I read the first line. My voice cracks. My dad is biting back tears whilst my cousin, my uncle’s son, sat on the sofa just behind him, cries out loud and in full. I laugh just to stop the urge to sob for a second, recompose myself, then begin again. This time, I get through it.

12:04 (two days later). “Your uncle has passed away now, sweetie. He’s now at peace.”

12:04. My uncle didn’t get through it, though. Two days after I read my poem to him, two days after I held his hand for the last time, two days after I said one final goodbye before my dad drove me home - he died. Two days after, he’s gone.

12:46. A Whatsapp from my dad. “Love you, smiler.”

12:46. I reply. “Love you too, papa.”

12:46. 42 minutes ago, my dad lost his best buddy. 57 years prior, my dad was born and his brother suddenly took on two titles all at once: big bro and forever friend. Who knew forever would one day end.

19:11. My cousin phones me up. “Hey Em, yeah, no, yeah, I’m okay. I’ll be okay. I’m okay. It was quite peaceful, actually. Not at all as morbid as I thought. He was with us all, he wasn’t alone, he knew we were there, so yeah. It was… yeah.”

19:11. I wish he could feel me hugging him through the phone.

19:11. “Listen, I just wanted to say, I’m a little worried about your dad. He’s just lost his best friend and I don’t think it’s hit him yet. Tonight, it probably will. And hard.”

19:11. 12:02. 14:20. 21:09. 02:32. 04:33. 18:30. 19:65. Any time and always. My dad did everything. Arranged everything. Solved everything. Soothed everything. Paid for everything. He talked to everyone. He comforted everyone. He fed everyone. He drove everyone. He laughed with everyone. He spent every night with my uncle. He administered the medication to my uncle. He lifted the spirits of my uncle. He never left the side of my uncle. He did everything he possibly could have (and so much more) for my uncle.

But he couldn’t save my uncle.

And in the end, that’s the part that lingers.

My dad lost his best friend last month. His fishing partner, his football buddy, his Thailand traveller, his bunk-bed sharer, his bus ticket buyer, his fellow bald-headed accomplice. His brother.

This month, next month and every month thereafter, this will remain true.

But one thing that is truer, bigger, and immortal, even, is the fact that he is a brother. Not “was.” Is. My dad is a brother and a best friend and a fishing partner and a football buddy and all the rest of it, despite the passing of time and my uncle. Nothing can take that away, alter it or make it mean any less. My dad was all of those things and still is - and throughout it all: he’s been my dad.

Ferrying his daughter to say goodbye to her uncle. Watching Jason Statham movies with her in the few hours he’s back at home. Sending Wordle updates over Whatsapp and telling her in every moment that he loves her, because what else matters?

My dad is my dad. A hero. A human. The most beautiful balance of both.

20:01. Today, a month later, right now. A Whatsapp from my dad. “Love you, smiler.”

20:01. I reply. “Love you too, papa. Can’t wait to go fishing next month! What’s your Wordle score today then?”