On April 8, I unblocked my father.
He could no longer message me.
His messages would never turn blue again.
But I began speaking to him anyway.
I wrote:
“Hi Pa, love you more. I’m glad you died peacefully. You’re finally free of all sorrows and found permanent peace. I’ll meet you there after I fulfil my duties as a mum to Kanishka.”
I told him that I could no longer see his messages turning blue.
But I knew he would read them.
I apologised.
I told him I was sorry that I could not do more for him.
I told him that his grand daughter would shine the way he wanted her to.
I asked him whether he was angry with me.
I told him I knew he had tried to reach me.
I knew he had called.
I knew he had reached out through my friend.
I told him I was sorry for staying away.
I explained that I had felt ashamed.
I told him that I had imagined visiting him.
I had imagined surprising him.
I had imagined the way he would react.
I had imagined the way he would greet me.
But now, I would never know.
I told him I did not have the strength to see him in a condition where he could not smile at me.
I told him that my husband would perform the last rites on our behalf.
I hoped he would accept that visit as an apology.
I told him that he had tried to reach me.
I told him I was sorry.
I told him that Amma would miss him the most.
I promised him that we would take care of her.
I told him that all three of his daughters had strong support systems and wonderful children.
I told him he did not need to worry about us.
And then I wrote:
“I will write a memoir for you documenting all the best moments of us.”
That was the promise.
I did not know then how many memories were waiting inside me.
I did not know that writing about him would become one of the ways I continued to speak to him.
I wrote to him again.
And again.
Sometimes I missed him.
Sometimes I was angry.
Sometimes I needed guidance.
Sometimes I simply wanted to tell him something ordinary.
I told him about his grand daughter.
I told him about my life.
I told him about things happening around me.
I asked him to speak to me in some form.
I told him I knew he was with me in Canada.
I welcomed him home.
I told him to stay.
I wrote about my family.
I wrote about forgiveness.
I wrote about the things that had happened after his death.
I told him that I would try to protect his name.
I told him that I understood him.
I told him to rest peacefully.
Sometimes grief is not crying.
Sometimes grief is sending a message to a phone that will never answer.
Sometimes it is still saying:
Appa, I miss you.
Sometimes it is sharing a moment with someone who is no longer physically present.
My messages did not bring him back.
But they gave my love somewhere to go.
And perhaps that was what I needed.
The messages never turned blue.
But somehow…
I always felt they had been read.
I thought I had missed my final conversation with my father.
Perhaps I had.
Or perhaps…
Our final conversation had only changed its language.
From spoken words…
To silence.
From silence…
To memory.
And from memory…
To love that death itself could never interrupt.