This is a photo of my father's hand. It is far different from how I imagined it to be, in the permanent mental photo of my mind. In my head it is the branch of strong, sinewy arms, and big soft palms. Fingers that pointed me to various fishes as we snorkled of east coast islands. Hands that held the bars of my bicycle as I mastered its steering. These are the hands of the person who sent me for piano classes, for art classes, who taught me how to swim. He held me and rocked me with comfort as I cried my heart out on numerous occasions when life beat me down. He, with his lame dad jokes (he is the king of them) and little smiles, always down to talk.
I won't say that he has never disappointed me. I have been crushed, I have been beaten, mentally, by the power of his actions. I grew up and I understand that no human being, no adult, no idol, is perfect. In similar turn I have also flown from the coop, more often now, headstrong and determined to chase my own life. Lately I have denied his invites to talk and do community activities, I am rarely home to share dinner. I am not the girl whose tiny hands sought for guidance. I am the young woman who is itching to find my own direction and purpose. This is to say that everyone changes with time, a mix of good and bad.
I glanced at him last week and noticed how much more extensive his white hairs have grown. His hands are more rough, and he walks, hunched, often tired from his hours of gardening, with a voice that's a little strained from numerous Quran recitals. He has retired, aside for part time teaching accountancy classes. Nowadays, I am the one driving him to places. We talk of investments, savings, our future plans and the strain of keeping up. This is the hand that trembled as I gave him some allowance money last week, as I paid for our meal and the car petrol. This time, I'm holding his hand and comforting him. Regardless of what happens, I'm going to do my best to not let him down.
I won't say that he has never disappointed me. I have been crushed, I have been beaten, mentally, by the power of his actions. I grew up and I understand that no human being, no adult, no idol, is perfect. In similar turn I have also flown from the coop, more often now, headstrong and determined to chase my own life. Lately I have denied his invites to talk and do community activities, I am rarely home to share dinner. I am not the girl whose tiny hands sought for guidance. I am the young woman who is itching to find my own direction and purpose. This is to say that everyone changes with time, a mix of good and bad.
I glanced at him last week and noticed how much more extensive his white hairs have grown. His hands are more rough, and he walks, hunched, often tired from his hours of gardening, with a voice that's a little strained from numerous Quran recitals. He has retired, aside for part time teaching accountancy classes. Nowadays, I am the one driving him to places. We talk of investments, savings, our future plans and the strain of keeping up. This is the hand that trembled as I gave him some allowance money last week, as I paid for our meal and the car petrol. This time, I'm holding his hand and comforting him. Regardless of what happens, I'm going to do my best to not let him down.
Happy 60th birthday, Daud bin Yusof.
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