Note

I saw a little piece of scrap paper today. Just a piece of paper, probably not more different from any other. Yet one side were a few words scribbled on:

"Staying at [the hospital]!
The lottery [ticket] is for the living expenses!
Keys for 1) motorcycle 2) mail box."

That was all. Just a few short and simple sentences. But perhaps the last words that dad ever wrote. Later, mum explained that that was the note she found one day. They had not talked for a while, yet the words carried that dry sense of humour and that sense of caring that dad could never really easily express in person. A few days later, he passed away.

I looked at that piece of scrap paper, and stroked the paper, feeling the texture, feeling the beautifully written words as if they somehow carried more than the green felt-tip pen they were written with. There was a connection to a past, a history and story that soon will be one year old.
Dad's potrait sits silently on his bedside table, his bed has been unused since he left. In the closet, his suits still hang, and his scent lingers on.

And in my mind, thoughts of him linger on too.