......while it is day

A daughter, her pen filled, not blue, nor black, neither the red ink, but her father’s memories, and the emotions that tagged along with it. And she was ready to write.

It was a Zoom call with Okey and Chuks, my brothers. Okey held the phone over his face, he looked beautiful as usual. Although I had been informed when it happened, yet the sight of my father, the hero without cape I grew up knowing, on the hospital bed with his eyes shut, nose blocked, and palms apposed awakened something in me; was it shock? Or grief? Or sorrow? Or disbelief?  I still can’t tell but my father, on the hospital bed, in that state is a sight I will never recover from, at least not now when it replays itself like a broken stereo.

There is a lot about him I have told, a lot I am telling and a lot to still tell. My father and the life he lived is not what words can describe but I would try to give Word the privilege of what a great, yet humble man he was.

The reality of his death, I can’t believe I use the word dead for him but I prefer rest instead: the reality of his rest dawned on me the mortality of man.

How fragile, though complex we are! How that Death plays the game of mortality with us and still wins no matter how health-conscious we are! How that today matters more than an unknown tomorrow!

So I leave you with this quote, which I decide to run with, lest Death comes and I leave behind nothing, “I will do the work of Him that sent me while it is day, for night cometh when no man can work.”

Inspired by Notes On Grief by Chimamanda Adichie.