On this day last year, my dad passed away. I had rushed half way around the world for that moment, and just made it. It was a gray, dull, cold, rainy day, much like today. His hand held onto mine, or rather, mine held onto his. It was wrinkled, dry, and peeling somewhat.
The beeping of the machine slowed, slowed, slowed, and gradually stopped. I whispered soft words into his ears, telling him to go with ease and in peace, and to let go. Let go of this life, let go of suffering, let go all the worldly things that keep us all so preoccupied all the time, yet, at the end of it all, amount to nothing. And he let go, left, the warmth of his body fading slowly until what remained on that hospital bed was a thin, frail corpse.
I did not shed a tear then. A calm overcame me, a stillness never before experienced, yet so subtle it felt surreal. In meditative serenity I comforted myself, and others. Life is only so much, I then realised, but memories are so much more that continue to live on longer than life.
So it is fitting that on this day, exactly a year later, I should be packing my bags in preparation to leave home. A year has come and gone, and I too have come and am about to go. Strewn on the floor of my dad's old bedroom are my bags and suitcases. When I open the drawers and cupboards, it is as if the trapped memories are released into the present and relived again. Pictures, letters, clothes, books... each a story, or a part of a story of a person, of a life, of a part of this all which is somehow connected to everything else and leads to everything else. Pens, audio tapes, bedspreads, namecards... each a reminder, a souvenir from the past that can make you remember the times and moments shared and passed. Alone they are merely objects, some yellowed by age, others faded away and barely readable, yet together they are pieces of valuable memories that continue to live on.
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