His Departure - His Last 'Celebrated' Birthday (cont'd)

Eversince that day, I couldn't help but wondering.

"Why me?"

I did want my father to be cured. I wanted him back home. In a way, I kept promising to myself that I want to be a better daughter if he got well.

I never asked my mother nor my father, how true was the news. Because I never believed in it.

I never wanted to.

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Monday, March 16 1992

I felt I needed to get his birthday present. I had never bought him anything. A pen would be nice. He could use it for work. Or anything else.

I couldn't find anything nice in the school bookshop. Nothing appropriate. So I decided to get it later after school. Went for my religious class and went to a nearby bookshop. I picked out the most 'expensive' pen. 'PaperMate' silver pen. I got the auntie to help me wrap it up because I wanted it to be perfect. Went to the cards' section and checked out the cards at the 'Birthday Wishes' headings. I was never good at understanding the words of those cards. I chose the simplest one, with no elaborate illustrations. Very simple. Even the words were just a few lines with a simple birthday wish.

Got the present wrapped, with a tiny blue ribbon attached at the upper right corner and all paid with my 'hard-earned' savings.

With my ever so untidy handwriting and poor grammar, I wrote;

"Father,
Today is your birthday the 43rd. I hope you like this card and a present.
From,

Your Daughter."

It was almost six when I reached home. He wasn't back from work yet. I showed to my mum and she suggested putting the present and card on the table. So, I went to his room, put them into place and had my shower.

I thought I heard him came back when I was in the bathroom. Thoughts were running in my mind. Not sure if he liked it. Or would I get a scolding instead. My father was the thrifty kind. He didn't like money to be spent unnecessarily.

Got out from the shower and got dressed. Then I was called to his room. There, I saw him in front of the dresser's, in tears. I was kinda worried. Then he just hugged and kissed me on the forehead. Silence.

I wanted to cry too, but didn't know what for. Somehow, I managed to hold back my tears. Then, I tried breaking the awkward silence by telling him where and when I bought it. Looking back, I wasn't supposed to tell him that. Oh well, what kind of conversation would you expect a nine year old to to make at this point of time? I didn't asked whether he liked it or not. Mother came in. His tears was drying up as I left the room.

Then I overheard him saying to mother, almost starting to cry again.

"The elders never bought me or even wished me anything. But she got me a present."

A sense of pride came over me. I smiled. Well, my elder siblings being boys, weren't sensitive about these birthday issues. I smiled not because I made him cry, but because I was already planning what to get him the following year. I planned to get a wallet.

I saw father already putting away the card and present he unwrapped. I couldn't remember whether did he thank me. But at that age, 'Please' and 'Thank You' were like the 'must say' words. But I wasn't bothered with that. Most importantly, I made a difference.

The day went back to normal. We had our dinner that together that night. That was pretty much about my father's 43rd birthday 'celebration'.

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The day I thought that I would repeat the same episode; getting the present, except for this time, a wallet, never came.

Months after his passing away, mother wanted to do a little bit of tidying up on father's table. She got me to help out. In one of the drawers, I found the card that I gave him. I opened and read the card. Recalling back what I wrote. I saw something unfamiliar written on the card.

"To my loving daughter,

Thank you for the thought, present and card.

Ayah"

I cried. Not because of the words. If he had just thanked me 'verbally', it could have just made me feel appreciated then. But the thought that he 'thanked' me in writing made me cried. Because he might had known then that he's leaving.

The first, one and only time.

To this day, I keep the card and reading it can easily brought tears to my eyes.

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People say, when someone died at a certain age, they remained that young.

But to me, father has grown old with me. 14 years passed, and I'm still his little girl.

Father could have retired by now. Just enjoying his 'golden age'. Playing with his grandchildren most of the times. That is nice. And he would fetch me from work if the last train had departed.

Ayah,

Happy 57th Birthday,

Your Loving Daughter,

Zihah..

Thursday, March 16, 2006 at 11:07 AM in I do remember ur birthday..., In Within Me