Cold and Sleepy. ~About Father ⑦~

#20241115-489

Friday, November 15, 2024
Since my father's funeral, I have been feeling unusually cold.
It is not like a chill.
It feels as if the core of my body is frozen, heavy, and sinking.
And I am sleepy.
Cold,sleepy.

When I am alone, my tear ducts loosen.
Even when I am not alone—even with my husband right next to me—when I lie in bed at night, turn off the lights, and close my eyes, the tears just spill out.
I feel insecure and bewildered.
I feel like a lost child.
I never thought I would be this shaken by my father's death. People might say it is natural since he was my parent, but I never imagined I would end up like this myself.

I think I was a "daddy's girl".
My sister was born when I was three. Someone must have told my father that when a second child is born, you should pay attention to the first. In our photo albums, I see many pictures of me being held by my father. While my mother was busy with my newborn sister, I would often sit snugly in my father's lap while we watched robot anime together.
I was interested in the handicrafts my mother liked, as well as the world literature collections for children like "Anne of Green Gables" and "Little Women," but I also loved insects and science fiction, and I relied on my father for those genres. I begged my father to take me to see the movies "AKIRA" and "The Five Star Stories."
When I was in the upper grades of elementary school and we were living in the countryside due to my father's job transfer, I wanted a personal computer and begged my father to take me to Akihabara. I was determined to buy a PC using all the New Year's money I had saved up. In those days, PCs cost a million yen, so there was no way I could afford one with my money, and the shop clerk in the electronics district recommended a pocket computer and an MSX instead.
I bought the MSX, but I don't know how much it cost, or whether my savings—which were managed by my parents—were enough to cover it or not.
I was told not to turn it on until I had read the entire manual, so on the express train ride home while the rest of my family was asleep, I read it desperately by myself. I still remember the exhilaration I felt when we got home, opened the box, and turned it on for the first time.

My father never scolded me.
Only once when I was little, I pestered him for something persistently—I was so persistent back then!—and I saw a flicker of irritation for a brief moment, which made me shut my mouth in a panic.
I was genuinely surprised that even my father could get angry. I also thought that when someone who usually doesn't get angry does, it is scary. That was the only time.

My choice of school.
The people I dated.
My career path after graduation.
My marriage.
My fertility treatment.
Becoming a foster parent.
My father never said anything about any of it.

It was always my mother who had something to say, and my father would support me by saying, "If that is what you want to do."
In truth, I don't know what my father was thinking deep down. I am not even sure if he understood. But his stance was that if it was something I had thought about and decided on, he would not oppose it.

My name is a bit hard to read.
It is not a creative reading, and there are people in Japan with the same name, but it feels like 90% of people read it differently. Since there is no reading registered on the family register, my father said that if it was too inconvenient, I could change the reading when I became an adult.
The reading is just the sound, but it is also part of my grandfather's name. I was planning to ask if it was taken from my grandfather's name, but before I could, my father started oxygen therapy and it became difficult for him to speak.
I missed my chance to ask.

My father was gentle and cheerful, and he had absolutely no vanity, but in the end, I never understood what was in his heart.
I can imagine quite a lot when it comes to my mother. I can vividly picture how she would think and what expression she would make if I said this or that, and even what she would say in response.
But with my father, even though I could hear the words he spoke, I could not see his heart.

What kind of person was my father?.
Were his words and expressions exactly as they seemed, with no hidden meaning?
I wanted to talk to him more, but even if I had, it does not mean he would have told me what was in his heart.

My eyes suddenly grow hot and tears fall, so perhaps I am sad right now.
But there is something that cannot be summed up by the word "sad."
I feel like I haven't even reached the sadness yet.
What is sadness, anyway?
As I think this, I am bewildered by the fact that I do not know what kind of person my father was.

Hey, Dad.
There are still so many things I wanted to ask you, Dad.