Mahika Behani
The wind rustled his hair as he stared dead straight into the camera. His dark brown locks had a slight olive tinge. My fingers slowly traced their way down the chain to the charm that had established it’s permanent spot around my neck, always nestling right below the collar of my t-shirt, hidden from the prying eyes of strangers. A smile immediately graced my face as I watched my father smile wide into the lens, my fingers playing with the silver nightingale resting gracefully on my chest.
“Sixty-five days.” I said aloud. “That’s… quite a while.”
Indeed, it had been. Sixty-five days since that moment was captured. Sixty-five days since a lot of things; for example, since he last sang me a song. If I scrunched up my eyes and thought hard enough, I could almost heard his melodious voice drifting up the stairs, as he danced in the kitchen. The kitchen was his spot - he weaved magic with ingredients and conjured up some of the most delicious food I could have ever imagined.
“Today’s new invention is…” He’d always trail off and let my mother and I try to fill in the blanks. We were pretty inventive with our guesses, I must say.
“Prawns covered in hot chocolate, garnished with a sprig of lemon grass.”
“Gnocchi tacos with fish.”
And my personal favourite: “Blueberry infused chicken in a marinara broth with chocolate encrusted garlic bread.”
He’d then laugh and say something along the lines of “No you silly gooses, I’d never be able to make something like that.”
He refused to acknowledge the fact that ‘gooses’ wasn’t actually a word. My mother tried correcting him once, but that encouraged him to say it as often as he could, coaxing a soft chuckle from her every single time. No matter how wild our guesses were, my father would somehow manage to rustle up the exact dish we described, sometime over the next week or so. Not only that, but he managed to get our crazy flavour combinations to taste like a drop of heaven.
Eyes blurry, I placed my laptop aside just as my mother ran into the frame, making my dad’s smile turn into a hearty chuckle. I think they had their own secret sign language. When their gazes met, I could’ve sworn they exchanged a thousand words, understanding each other perfectly. There was some sort of poetry they found written in each others’ eyes, the kind that only they could read.
Me, on the other hand? I was a witness to the love that blossomed and grew between them. I could describe the colour and pattern of the three butterflies captured in that video - I had every single millisecond of it committed to memory. After all, sometimes all you’re left with are these memories. Glimpses of what was, and what could have been.
My journal was the one thing that saved me. I did lose a huge part of my identity, physically and emotionally, but my journal was what stuck by me through everything - I still find myself holding onto it for comfort and reassurance. I picked it up and started writing.
‘Dear Nameless,
I met an old friend today! I don’t know how to feel about our interaction. She knew me when I was my bubbly, cheerful self - the version of me who had no worries in the world, and was so naive. I’ve changed a lot now. I don’t quite know how to describe it, but Maya said she thought “Something inside me has died.”
I wouldn’t put it quite like that. I’d like to think of it more as if the lightbulb in me is running low on battery, and glowing dimmer than before. ‘Died’ seems too permanent a word. I know it seems cliche, but I think I can return to some semblance of my lively persona with time. Of course, the lightbulb won’t be quite the exact same - it will have some scars and scratches, remnants of what has passed. But that’s what makes the light all the more interesting to look at; it’s now intersperesed with shadows which have personalities and stories of their own.
I feel like I’m getting too poetic. I should go and do my literature essay, I’ve been putting it off for the longest time.
I’ll catch you later, yeah?’
As I tried emptying my mind and focusing on finishing my essay, I found myself humming:
“Nightingale singing in the dead of night, Take these broken wings and learn to fly…”
My dad was the biggest Beatles fan I have ever met. He knew all of their songs, and more often than not, you could catch him singing ‘Blackbird’. That was his favourite song, and is mine now as well. I find the lyrics more and more ironic every single day.
I remember the last time I was talking about my father to someone and they said “Oh, I’m so sorry for your loss. I can feel how much you miss him.”
I just nodded along, unsure of what to respond with. My father wasn’t dead, not in the literal sense. At this very moment he was sitting on the coach downstairs, probably staring lifelessly at the plain white wall. However, I wouldn’t classify him as being ‘alive’. He still roams around aimlessly, refusing to interact with anyone.
I tried making his favourite dinners for him, even pushing him to come cook up a new concoction with me in the kitchen, but he firmly shook his head. He reminds me of a discarded clam shell - the outside is deceievingly perfect, but it’s hollow and empty on the inside.
He’s been this way ever since my mother walked up and left, sixty-five days ago, with absolutely no explanation. We haven’t seen or heard from her since. The video I play on repeat was taken the day before my whole life got turned on its head. That day isn’t one I’d ever like to relive because I lost two of the most important people in my life. I feel like a huge part of him walked out of the door with my mother.
I think Maya’s words are a perfect explanation of what happened to my dad. Inside him, something has died, and I’m not too sure if it’s the kind of something that can be rekindled. I think this something is permanent.