28 Years Without Him

This year, the remembering feels different. Heavier. Clearer.

Photo by İsmail Efe Top on Unsplash

I sit cross-legged on my bed, laptop open, fingers hovering, not really writing.

I was trying to finish a piece — but something felt… off.

The air’s heavier tonight.

Smells like smoke and regret.

Traffic outside, louder than usual.

Like the city’s got something to say but doesn’t know how to say it.

I sat for a long time after prayers.

Half an hour, just breathing. Not moving. Not thinking.

Or maybe thinking too much.

Then it hit me.

21/06.

That date.

That damn date.

My father’s death anniversary.

And I almost forgot.

It punched through me — not with fists, but fire.

Like someone took a blowtorch to my chest.

I locked my door.

I cried.

I bawled, honestly. Couldn’t stop.

Because the guilt came crashing in hard.

How could I almost forget?

Twenty-eight years.

I’ve lived twenty-eight years without him.

And most of those years — fog.

Fuzzy memories. Substance blurs.

I told myself I was fine. That I’d made peace.

Lies.

This year’s different.

This year I’m clear.

This year, I’m sober.

And it’s heavier than it’s ever been.

The only time I have with him now is at his gravestone.

That’s it. That’s all I get.

And I’ve been carrying this weight, pretending it was light.

My birthday’s coming up — July 2.

I won’t celebrate. I never do.

Not because I hate aging, but because it feels like a countdown.

Like I’m running out of time to become someone he’d be proud of.

I found an old journal from 2010.

Back then I wrote like I was untouchable.

Like pain bounced off me.

But that was youthful arrogance, laced with addiction.

Now?

Now I feel everything.

I miss him.

More than I can explain.

And if he’s listening:

Dad, I need you.

More than ever.

I’ve been acting unbreakable so Mum has someone to lean on.

But I’m not unbreakable.

I’m just trying to carry the family name the best way I know how.

Even if I dropped it to survive.

Even if part of me died that day too—

not in a blaze,

but in the quiet.

In the freeze.

In the breath I didn’t take.

In the way time moved forward

and I didn’t.

I’m not posting this for pity.

I’m posting this because I almost forgot.

And that scared me more than anything.

This year I’m remembering properly.

Not through fog.

Not through false strength.

Just… me.

I’m going to hug Mum now Dad, for both of us. It is 28 for her too.

If I’m quiet tomorrow, this is why. I’ll still turn up as he would want me to, just with a different energy.

Authors Note

I have nothing of worth to say. I wrote this in a flurry, in this year’s journal, in a 15-minute spurt, and just added the last line. The photo was already part of my collection. I’m sure it is littered with errors, but I don’t care because all the wordplay, cadence and metaphors can’t take away what I am feeling now. This is just my way to remember.

-Shain