SS 'Father, Are You Watching?'

The chanting of the sutras echoes. My father, smiling in his memorial portrait, looked quite ordinary. I grip my handkerchief. A stain spreads, refusing to dry. Through the hole left behind, I recall several of those days. My cousin sitting next to me wore a bitter expression.

When I was in the upper grades of elementary school, the topic of who to save if my mother and children were drowning came up. My father answered immediately.
"I'll save Mom. You kids learn to swim on your own."
My mother was furious. One of my younger sisters looked at him as if she were seeing something unbelievable, while the other was dumbfounded that he could actually say such a thing. I decided to practice swimming. Afterward, my father took me to the public pool.

When I was in high school, my younger sister was being harassed by some rough-looking men near our house. My grandfather, who found them, rushed out of the house, while my father stood at a distance, framing them with his camera and taking rapid-fire shots.
"Dad, help her too!"
My sister was furious.
"It's okay, I've got the evidence."
My father nodded with complete confidence. I looked at the three of them. The camera was brand new.

When I was a university student, my maternal grandmother passed away. She was a bold and cheerful person. She had been fond of my father.
"Dad, that's a bit much."
That day, my father appeared in a bright linen jacket and stark white pants. My mother blinked her teary eyes repeatedly, and my two sisters nodded in agreement.
"This is my best suit, it's perfect."
My father was dignified. The ceremony began, and the sound of sobbing hit my ears. My father was taking close-up shots of the head priest's head with his camera. We sisters shook with suppressed laughter, and all our relatives pretended not to notice. He even took close-ups of the memorial portrait.

Around the time I got married and left home, my father collapsed. On his final day, everyone was around his bed.
"Dad, everyone is here."
My mother and aunt were crying and laughing, and my two sisters had pained expressions.
"It's the dog."
I placed our pet dog on the bed. It stepped on his thinning body and licked his face repeatedly. I placed the other dog on the bed as well. My father laughed with a light voice. His arm was being stepped on, too.
"...Shall we have some coffee?"
"I'll go buy some."
"The one from the coffee maker, okay?"
My sister said. My brother-in-law drove through the night. It took time to make coffee for seven people. Our coffee break surrounding my father was filled with blooming memories. My vision was blurred the whole time, and I held the dog tight. I wonder if my father heard us.

On a quiet morning, my father was gone. The funeral director arrived promptly. They spoke about the ceremony in a matter-of-fact way.
"Dad,"
My mother cries. My two sisters have no words.
"Father."
I hold his hand. It was a cold, dry hand that was my father's, yet no longer my father. For the first time, I learned the meaning of crying.

And today, winter rain was falling. I am here in a beige jacket and white pants. The stain spreads. I look from my cousin, who still wears a bitter expression, to my family. Everyone was crying and laughing. The chanting of the sutras flows over the hole.
White is too much. I never said it. Even so, I tugged lightly on my jacket and looked straight ahead with dignity. I don't need a handkerchief anymore.





Father, are you watching?

I am participating here.▼