And I Remember You

Ramadhan’s coming.. and I remember you. Years has passed since you gone to your Lord, But your voice, your shadows still here… hanging around.

There were times I feel the longing of meeting you, just once in a dream, seeing you smile, a little pat on my shoulder, saying that you proud to have me as I am now. Dear father, your little girl is a grown up woman now.

The mosque is calling people to come from its tower, and I remember you. Remember how I hate the cold water very early in the morning.. when you poured one bucket… yes the whole bucket.. on my head when I was so lazy to get up for Fajar praying. The habits which had made me to dry my pillow from time to time, showing my laziness of getting up early.

Time passed by, and I remember you…

“How should I know the direction for praying? Ask people there, they know better than your father, and stop calling everyday, there are better things for your money to spend!”

Dear me, how much I depended on you before, even asking for praying direction when I was in a far away country, which had made you laughed. Yeah, how could you know? I should start stopping to depending on you and asking whatever question I have only to you.

“Thank you for helping your father!” You said when you gave me back a small amount of money you have borrowed some weeks passed. I was surprised! I know some parents even insist their children to pay back after raising them with care and love, or the least if not insisting, they thought it is children’s obligation to help their parents. But a ‘thank you’ always came from you most of the time.

“Is in not mother said this morning that she will do all the washing tomorrow?” I asked when I saw you wash your clothes in the bathroom. “Your mother is working everyday, she must have some time to rest. This is nothing and I can do it.” I was touched! I have seen men, my friends’ father, even my elder brothers who spent their time in reading news paper or talking with their friends, instead of helping their wives. I’ve seen you cleaning the garden, climb up the roof, cooking or washing the dishes sometimes when necessary, ironing your clothes or sewing a button to your shirt. How lucky my mother I think! And wonder… would there be anyone out there like you…

“I will leave you this, en example of spirit, an enthusiasm of your father to live his life. I would not leave you with inheritance, you know your father has nothing to bequeath to, except this, an enthusiasm to live and never give up trying, fight my life for my family, my wife and children. You’ll see that when your father just staying home, it will mean he’s dying. Make your work for your life and not life for your work.” And I had cried, cried over those words you said when I insisted on having something my friends had which you could not gave me. And I remember you, feeling tears at the back of my eyes. Yet when I have so many things I want and could share with you, you’re no longer here.

And I grow up, learning a lot from you, trying to be strong in times of burden as you had shown with your strength.

And Ramadhan’s coming, and I remember you. You are not perfect, but you’ve taught things which are worth to remember, far worth to be practiced. May Allah’s mercy be upon you, my beloved father.