āI canāt remember,ā Olivia said in a small voice. Tears threatened to leave her eyes. She was alone in her room with no one to keep her company. She stared at the picture frame that stood in front of her, resting on a bookshelf that had once belonged to her grandparents, but her vision was blurry and all she saw was the faint silhouette of a young man. She couldnāt remember him. She couldnāt remember her father.
At first it was his voice she could not make up entirely. She had a feeble memory of it. Olivia knew for sure it was a deep, manly voice. Sometimes fierce, sometimes soft. But when trying to conjure a concrete sound all she could hear was static.
Then it was his face. She couldnāt see it in her mind as clearly as she could others. She could see his hair, short and black with some strands of gray because of his age. She could sort of recognize the shape it had, more oval than circular, a little bit square-like maybe. If she shut her eyes tight enough and concentrated deeply, she could catch sight of some details like wrinkles and facial hair. But Olivia couldnāt see neither his eyes, nor his nose or mouth. If it wasnāt for the pictures she had of his father, all she would have left was the image of an unknown man.
And then, it was his closeness. His father wasnāt there with her and would never be again. He was six feet underground, immersed in a profound sleep with only insects to keep him company. He would never embrace her in a tight, warm hug again. He would never kiss her in the forehead to remind her everything was alright. He would never come back and tell her how proud he was of her for carrying on.
His father seemed soā¦ alien to her. Every time she tried to conjure up a memory of him, a scene of the past, it was like pushing her head underwater. She could not focus her vision, everything was shaking in wavelike movements; she could not distinguish the words he was saying, every sound muffled and distant.
āI canāt remember,ā she repeated, voice trembling and shoulders shaking, tears now covering her face entirely.
It had been three years now since he was gone, and Olivia thought she had that part of her life managed. She had grieved, she had cried, talked about it, she even went to therapy. She thought no new problems on that topic would come up, but she was wrong.
When someoneās fine with otherās death, they start feeling guilty for feeling like that. How dare she carry on when her dad would not? How dare she look at pictures and not feel sad anymore? Was she glad she could not remember him? Was she glad he was a faint memory?
She was a monster. How could she forget the one person who ever loved her and be fine with it? Not just fine; glad, relieved, thankful. Was it okay to feel like this? She did not know, and she could not ask anyone as it would be shameful to admit her deed.
Would he be mad? The time she spent with him was too short for her to really know. Her mind had started to jam with hypothetical questions ā various what ifās and would heās ā never to be clarified as the recipient was no longer here to answer them. It made her no good to overthink and try to guess the answers. It only left her with more doubts and a feeling of emptiness she did not like.
Despite that, she kept asking those questions. A curious mind since birth, she would not be stopped from inquiring. In a way, asking was like paintingāand she liked painting. She would take this person and wonder what they looked like behind the dark. She would bend reality to fit her artistic mindset. With each stroke, she would change features as she pleased, not caring if they did not fit with what was presented in front of her. For, how could she paint an accurate picture if the subject in mind was not just cast into shadows but was the shadows itself? An imaginary subject is as good as an invisible one.
With these strokes she could fill the emptiness. She could add light and texture and form shapes. She could finish the painting herself.
And so, his father became an illusion. A myth distorted by time. A game of broken telephone.
Is the ship of Theseus still the same ship if all its parts have been replaced? If not, at what point does the ship stop being itself? How much can one change it before it is too much?
Olivia did not have the answers to any of these questions. In fact, she did not have the answers to anything, she would later find out. This story does not have an end, for grief does not have one either. It is an everlasting process we will carry for our whole life. It will stay with us like a loyal friend, although a little bit more hostile at times. This story is not a story. This not story is life. And life as a whole is not a story to be told but to be kept. Keep it with you. Do not let it go. For the world is not yet ready to know. But thatās not quite right either. The world is ready. Always has been. Ever since the first boom. Since the first hello. The one who is not ready is Olivia. It is you. It is me. Keep me with you and do not let me go, for I am not ready to face the world.
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