Three months before I pack my bags, getting ready to be away from home, away from the one I used to waking up each morning, away from him, finally. A part of me is quite excited at the turning yet for the most part, cringing from sadness.

Slumped on the couch, eyes squeezed shut, his thin lips (like mine) protruding and the familiar constant involuntary movement of his fingers on both hands and feet as he tried to lull himself to sleep- I will never forget. Though it would seem as if he’s scrambling to yank tragic thoughts off his mind. He looks, as always, tired. And sad as ever.

It’s hard to see him this way. even harder when eventually I would have to let him know. Like how difficult it would be, as helpless as you are, to release someone from your grip after years of almost solely dwelling on the fact that the person will always be there. Especially if it has some rapport to your system. akin to your nature and whole being. Especially if it was your daughter. The one person who gives a glimmer of hope and somehow, light, for your existence. Or so I strongly thought.

His eyes are wildly open now, agitated by the noise of street children still singing caroling songs even if it is no longer Christmas. His eyes flicker on and off at its first opening, dazed by the light. He finally stands and sprinted toward the door, my prying eyes still following, so gracefully… and easily. I wished fervently it’s that easy, too.