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I want someone…to turn back the time.

I want someone…to erase my memories.

“You can prepare the tea. I'm ready to try it now!”

But I want to remember the times when my daddy was smiling. Although, he smiles always with his lips shut. Nevertheless, it was all the more warm and familiar. When I was little with Mother still alive, smiles like that weren’t rare. An innocent me once asked him why he never showed his teeth, and he used to say-

“Why, it’s because Daddy isn’t like Barney’s! So if Nana wants to have a nice smile and white sparkling teeth like Barney, you have to brush your teeth consistently every morning when you wake up and every night before you go to bed, okay?”

And I listened to him.

I want to remember when he took up gardening and cooking with Mother after she pestered him to. Preparing meals isn’t her specialty, but she wasn’t exactly horrible either. Her best were sweet desserts like cakes. On weekends when they would have free time to bake, I heard laughter and particles of flour flying around the dry kitchen-

“Darling, you look better with all that ‘makeup’ on your face!”

Or the times when we cleaned the attic alone without anyone’s help, when he told past stories of his school years, when we stumbled upon Father’s and Mother’s old childhood photographs; or when he told me about how they met, how he had proposed to her…

“She pounced on me, crying like a big baby before I could slip the ring on her finger…”

I can remember those, but that scene that always intercepts-

Eyes closed lightly that made his tired and worn out face look loving and serene, as he sat on the garden swing waiting for me. My hands were warm with a pot of chamomile tea that I freshly brewed myself. Pouring the fragrant liquid into the china cup and saucer, I called out to him.

“Father, tea’s ready! Don’t blame me if it tastes bitter or weird!”

He didn’t move a bit. I still stupidly wonder perhaps we were playing the tickle game, where he would jump and attack my sides as soon as I’m close enough.

I went closer to take my seat next to him. There was still nothing. Maybe he was sleeping. My father’s a heavy sleeper. Not even an earthquake could wake him up…

Putting my hands on his shoulders, I shook them. Father would be angry at me for disturbing his sleep, but he had said he wanted to try my tea. The tea would be cold in a few seconds…

“Father?” I took his writing hand into mine. It was cold, as cold as ice.

I didn’t know why, but the songbirds in the garden that chirp every morning stopped singing. I wrapped my arms around Father with the palm of my hand on his back. It was so quiet that I can hear myself breathing, parallel to my pumping heart.

I can hear the soft wind and rustling leaves, but I can’t hear and feel his heartbeat.

“Father?”

I feared for the worst, nudging him again and again. I called out to him again and again, the whole time trying to withstand the tears that were being forcefully held back, hurting my stuttering jaw. Nothing happened. Father didn’t even stir in his sleep.

Still, I didn’t cry.

Suddenly, something fell out from his hand. I quickly reached out for it on the floor. It was a crumpled piece of card. No…not a card, a photograph-

of Mother smiling. Wrapped inside the picture was a plain gold ring.

I flipped the image of her in my hand. There was something short scribbled on behind, my father’s handwriting no doubt. The ink of the pen he used was still fresh, leading me to think he wrote this only recently.

Sorry. I made you wait so long.

I don’t remember…after that…I think I broke down. I cried hard and loud for the first time in so many years, as the first few rain droplets entered the cup of tea my father never got to drink.

Mother, are you crying too?