I miss him in the morning most. I don't know why. I just loved to see him in the morning, sipping his turkish coffee and smoking his cigarette.
It was the 25th of Spetember, 2008, the 25th of Ramadhan 1429, when I lost my father to a stroke. He was fine on that day, we had Iftar (breaking the fast) and then sat and had a chat, then he went to the mosque to pray Isha & Taraweeh. He never got to the Taraweeh part. He started having severe chest pain. Some men from the mosque brought him back home (we live very close to the mosque), He was in severe pain but it was so fast, everything was so fast. It was chaotic, mind boggling. All but one of my brothers were there and myself. We were around him trying to massage him and waiting for the ambulance. It felt like an eternity till they arrived. By the time they did... It was too late, his pulse had become so weak, CPR was no use.
I later went to take the medical report from hospital. It said that they continued CPR for 27 minutes, or so. But there was no use.
My father is gone.
Baba, these are my words to you:
I have to deal with the fact that death is final. I keep waiting for you to knock my door, or carry my children, or bake me your famously delicious Knafe. But all that will have to be a memory.
I have to deal with my guilt within. The guilt of not being there for you enough, not holding your hands longer, not asking you what was bothering you, not sparing a second thought when you walked out of that door that fateful evening. A trauma I will never recover from. Not asking you if you were ok, if you were hurting in any way. I wish I had spent every waking minute with you. If only I could turn back time.
My dear beloved dad. I love you beyond words Baba, your life meant everything to me, your death is my ultimate pain. I wish I had talked to you longer, I wish I hugged you before you walked out to the mosque, I wish I took more pictures of you. I wish I told you I love you and that you meant the world to me. I wish I told you I loved what you had cooked for us that day, you had brought me mini pizzas and haloumi kabob sticks, remember? you said they were especially for me. Na2na2a you called them.
And we laughed.
We laughed that day at the table, when you were waiting for us to come and join you for Iftar.
You were happy that we came on a Thursday and not our customary Friday lunch/Iftar day. I'm so glad we came on that Thursday. I'm glad God gave me the chance to join you on your last meal with us. It hurts to use that word "last meal".
Seif was on your lap, eating, Amina was teasing you and asking you to stop smoking. We all loved you tremendously. We loved hearing you talk about things, life, Lebanon, Bahrain, my brothers, your job, and how dedicated you were.
I love you Baba.
I will visit you every day to let you know that I am still here, thinking of you, and praying for you, and wishing you were with us still. But perhaps you are in a better place. A place that truly appreciates the goodness of your heart, the purity of your intentions, the goodness that surrounded you.
Waves of people were upon us, mourning your death, our house jampacked with people who were shocked at the news. Too shocked for words,
I miss you, Baba.
May Allah's mercy be with you. It hurts to say that too. To come to terms with the fact that you are no longer with us. No longer on the table with us. Or not at work, or at Amto Mona's house.
I love you. I miss you. I will always remember you. You're always in my heart.
Your loving daughter,