I remember jumping on him in bed every Friday and Saturday morning and giving him a “wake-up hug” just to get him out of bed.
I remember his perfectly-aligned teeth and his kind eyes. They were of hazel and honey and would always sparkle with mirth.
I remember him dressing me up for school, and how I used to stand on the bed, rest my little hands on his shoulders and do a quirky little jump just so he could slip me into my school tights.
I remember waking up in the middle of the night to the sound of his keys rattling at the door and thinking “Baba is back from Fajr prayer.”
I remember how I would gaze up at him while he stood in front of the mirror brushing his hair sideways, the way he always did, and how I wished to see what it would look like if I brushed it any other way.
I remember his white pants and his red polo short, and how he started wearing it untucked solely because I told him I liked it that way.
I remember how he juggled hot bread between his hands after taking it right off the stove and the funny sounds he used to make.
I remember him walking me to the school bus and telling me: “Esmo zmeely mesh sa7by”, when I told him what “sa7by” had done the other day.
I remember the cheese and mayo sandwiches he used to make and how I would obsess over every weird sandwich combination he used to come up with.
I remember him coming back from the mosque and carrying on with his Sunnah prayers. He used to pray by the side of the bed; the exact same spot I’ve been praying at for more than three years now.
I remember him calling me “Fozdo2a, bondo2a” and “Lollety 7abebty.”
I remember him tucking me in bed and telling me bedtime stories, and how I would go ballistic whenever he ran out of stories to tell and started making up ones about this beautiful girl named Laila, “Baba! I want a real story,” I used to tell him.
I remember him talking to mom in the living room after coming back home from work. They would talk for hours telling each other how their days went. And even though I was meant to be doing my homework, I used to keep listening to their stories longing for one with a little bit of adventure..
I remember how he used to fix everything. “My dad can fix ANYTHING,” I used to tell my friends at school.
I remember the way he said “Alo” on the phone and how me and my brother would argue over who does the best Baba-Alo impression..
I remember his handwriting and how the copybooks on which he had written my name were my favorite ones..
But best of all, I remember him loving me endlessly, like no other.
Every now and then, I would think to myself what my life would have been like if Baba was still in it. Would it have been the same? Would I have been the same person I am today?
There were days when I really wanted to talk to him. Just tell him how my day went or share some good news. Whenever me and mom pass by his grave, she would tell me: “Talk to Baba, Lily.” I really want to talk to him and tell him everything that has been going on in my life, but my brain fails me every time. I never was able to find the right words to say. I would just cry, hoping that maybe he knew what I wanted to say.
I can only wish I could talk to him. I want to see him proud of me.
“Hey Baba, we won gold today and everybody was talking about the girl in the jersey number 13.”
“Hey Baba, I’m no longer a little girl. I’m all grown up now.”
“Hey Baba, I put my hijab on today.”
“Hey Baba, I’m valedictorian.”
“Hey Baba, I’m an Engineering student now.”
All the things I wanted to say to him never made their way out of my mouth; they just translated into tears.
I hated myself for not remembering him as much as I wished I could. I would keep staring at his pictures trying to relate every detail of his face to any of the memories I had of him. At family gatherings, when stories of Baba are brought up, I keep trying to figure out how he was like, how he treated people, what he liked and disliked. Knowing your parents as a kid is something and knowing them as an adult is a whole other thing. I used to be jealous of the people telling stories about him; I felt they knew him more than I did and it killed me. “It’s not fair,” I used to think to myself, “I’m his daughter, I should know him best.”
I was only twelve when he passed away. A sharp knife used to cut straight through my heart whenever someone started talking about their dad. It felt weird saying “Baba” again; it just felt out of place. Getting three spoons and plates instead of four while prepping the table always hurt. Not hearing him and mom talking and laughing in the room right next to me at night. Seeing his wallet and his keychain that never left his pockets just laying there on the table. Traveling without him for the first time. Watching a movie I used to watch with him. Mom driving his car. Spending the first Ramadan without him. Celebrating my birthday without him..
A void was created. A void that I knew, could never be filled.
Losing a parent is not the end of the world, but it is hard. I would be lying if I said that getting over the fact that he is not with us anymore was easy. I miss him. It has been almost eight years now. But if there is one thing I had learned, it is that life goes on, whether we liked it or not. The fact that you will lose someone you love at some point in time is inevitable, but the good memories they leave with us are what keeps them alive. Life goes on, and it is your choice; you can keep sobbing and moaning over what you no longer have, about the people you lost, or you can be grateful for the good times you had spent with them, be grateful for what remained, and move on.
In the twelve years that I had spent with him, he had given me the love that a father would give his daughter in an entire lifetime. He loved me endlessly, like no other. He is Baba. My Baba.
