The Haunting

Do you remember that question? The one I brushed off and pretended not to hear? The one I thought was irrelevant? I remember that question, and especially that day. It was THE day. You said goodbye and I didn't want to listen. I had thought of it then as absurd. You couldn't possibly be going anywhere. You were with me and that was THAT.

But back to that question.

There was a slight breeze. I could hear the rustling of leaves. Now and then a fly hovered: above your head, close to my nose (annoying!)...I kept shooing it away. You were wearing that pink polo (I remember mom insisted it was purple. Yeah, right.), the one that was slightly too big for you even before and was really enormous on you just then. We had borrowed that old, rickety wheelchair, remember? And you looked odd sitting in it. You pulled me close because you had a hard time speaking. Your throat was hoarse. The bulge was slightly visible from the side of your neck. I kept trying not to look at it.

"Are you happy?"


I was unsettled. Why would you ask me that? Why then? It didn't seem right, so I didn't answer. You asked again.

"Long, are you happy?"

I kept silent. I pretended not to hear. I moved away and tried to appear busy. Like there was something more important to do or think about so I wouldn't have to dwell on your question. THAT question!

The nun arrived, though I didn't recognize her right away. She was in house clothes and slippers. She had just finished lunch. She said she would just wash up and let us know when she was ready. My hands felt clammy. My feet were moist inside my flats. Nerves.

When she returned and called for us, I was actually (this, I'm admitting now) terrified to go. I had an ominous feeling about the whole thing, like a clawing hand was about to smother my throat. It felt, quite frankly, like the call of death. Was the nun able to tell? She looked at me just at that very moment and told me to be ready. What we were about to hear was important, she said. The words rolled out of her mouth like marbles. I swear I heard them drop to the ground.

What happened next was erased from memory. Only two distinct and regrettably haunting words remained etched in my consciousness to this very day. LET GO. I didn't cry. I know I didn't. The tears wouldn't come just then. And they didn't come for a very, very long time even after you left.

LET GO.

That was two, short, very arduous, and very taxing months before your death, Papa. I remember it today because it was also in September, close to my birthday that we visited that place of miracle and prayed for your recovery. What I couldn't accept then was that the miracle wasn't of you getting better, but of you being given the opportunity to say goodbye: properly and lucidly.

And again, that question.

I hope to have an answer for it soon. Until then, please let it visit my memory often enough. And when it does, I hope you are there to ask it from me, too.

P.S. I shall have your name tattooed very, very soon.