Since I don't want to just sleep during my summer break, I mentioned that I wanted to jump back into reading and read as many books as I can in these three months time. This week at my hometown I picked up and finished a title from Mitch Albom called For One More Day. I feel so amazing already for being able to finish it within a week, but let's not talk about how amazing I am and focus on how amazing the book is instead. I know, I know, you can stop clapping.
I didn't actually read the synopsis of the book but I had read from a lot of places that Mitch Albom writes some pretty good stuff so I thought I'd just give it a read. Turned out it was about (okay I don't know how to do this) love that lots of people take for granted. As a woman who grew up without dating and in a family where intimacy is hard between us, I find myself sometimes longing for love, affection and attention from a significant other. Far at the back of my mind I know I should seek it from within myself, the people close to me and most importantly from my Creator, but that's it – it only stays at the back of my mind.
Reading this book has made me resurface this fact. I look back and realise all the times that I have been distant from my own family members, even though for the past couple of years I have been trying to change the situation. I could say that my relationship with my family has improved, except for that with my father. In the book, Chick "lost his mother to death", and he "lost his father to shame". On the other hand, I lost my father to death, and I would never ever wish to lose my mother to shame.
As I have mentioned, I have been trying the best I can to mend things with my family and the relationship between my mother and I have been a lot better, even though I still keep some personal things to myself. However, while reading this book, my mind always get transported back to the memories I have with my father. There are not many, but are still vivid.
I never lived with my father. He lived separately with my extended family but he would always come to visit, or we would always stop by their place while traveling back hometown. My father was artsy. He used to take unused school books from his children and draw in them. He wrote poetry too. I only remember one or two of them but I would be so inspired that I started drawing too. He used to do magics too. He would do his tricks whenever he came to visit us and I would be amazed every time. He taught us a few of his tricks but to this day, I only remember one.
My father was wise with his words. I remember when I was 15, he picked me up one day from school in KB, and asked me about my friends. I told him about how my old friends from the previous school gave me so many presents as parting gifts, and he told me that was how they appreciated me and meant that I was a good friend to them. I always struggled with self-love since I was young but at that moment, I probably teared up a little because his words made me feel a little appreciative of myself.
When I was 17 I got all As for my GCSE. I was happy but not exactly over the moon about it. One weekend, I was on the laptop in my room carrying on with my life as usual, and he was there visiting for a while. Before he went back, he came over to my room and kissed me on my forehead as a congratulations on my result. I was taken aback, didn't say anything except for a little smile and returned back to my laptop because it felt so strange. If I were more thankful for my results, it wasn't because of the straight As but his kiss instead.
When I was 19 I was late for my bus back to college. He was driving me there. My mother was there too. When we arrived at the bus station we saw the bus leaving. He stopped the car immediately and ran out to chase the bus for me. I had been in his situation before and I knew how embarrassing it felt but it didn't matter. Before I hurriedly got on the bus, body still high from the adrenaline, I shaked his hands and unconsciously hugged him and kissed his cheeks, as how I used to do it with my friends. It didn't feel as strange anymore, but in the bus after I calmed down, it dawned on me how weird it was to salam my father like that, because I never did that before, ever. But boy was I glad that I did.
I was turning 23 when he started getting really sick, and since then he rarely called me anymore. I didn't call him a lot because I was so caught up with life away in Shah Alam. I used to wonder why he hadn't called as much, but I never picked up the phone myself and asked him. I really wish I did. I wish I was closer to him. I wish I knew more about him. I wish I wasn't as shy as a kid that I never got rid of the thought of him being a stranger. I wish I hadn't run away whenever he wanted to talk more to me. I wish I stood up more for him.I wish I was more chatty with him. I wish I was nicer to him. I wish I had called him more often, or as often as he would call me.
But now he's gone, I'm 24 and I can't call him on the phone anymore.
So appreciate your folks when you still have the chance. It's the right thing to do. If anything, this should make me want to work hard for jannah so I could be reunited with him and do all the things I wish I had and hadn't done with him, eternally.
This is Farahana Nur signing off, trying to stifle a sob.
