Flier's Hill Reminiscent
I rose up from my seat, at a bench overseeing Fliers Hill. There were fireworks, illuminating the night sky. Yellow, violet, emerald, they had one for each of the colours of a rainbow. They showered the otherwise vapid night, with a radiant light show, to be seen from miles away. The lights were bright, and as loud as cannon fire. It was as bright as that night thirty years ago, when I was but a naive boy, clutching my father's fragile hands.
My father was a sickly man, ever since I could remember. He had leukemia. He stopped working when I was five, under the doctor's advice. He had a tall, slender body. His hands were big, bigger than mine at that time, but it did not had strength, no firmness in his grip. He would always wear a jovial expression, though at least he used to. During his final days he rarely smiled. Instead, his warm gaze and gentle face was replaced with one that was either looking constantly worried or one that had let go control of his life.
I was very close with my father, seeing as I was his only son, I was the only place for him to pour his affection into, other than my mom. When I was little, he would seem to be interested in every little thing I do and was inquisitive to every little thing I wanted to say. It felt calming talking to my father, though most of the time our conversation would be one sided. He wasn't usually talkative, instead preferring to listen and nod attentively from time to time. My mother wasn't able to spend as much time with him as I did, as she had to win the bread for the family.
I remembered him having a coy personality, at times quite lax and laid back. Sometimes, if you see him being whimsical about his illness, you can't really tell if either he has failed to truly take in the gravity of his situation. Either that or he was hiding it, very,very well. Often, he would apologize to my mother for being such a burden to her and not keep his wedding oath of being able to support her and provide for her. My mother would brush it off as a joke, but sometimes it'd get her uncomfortable. She would laugh, she would, but then there's an awkward silence between them, and she would wear this perplexing expression.
When I was eight, he had to be admitted to the hospital permanently. Doctors would poke needles into his arm while he la on the drab, grey bed under the dim fluorescent light of the hospital ward. Sometimes, doctors would have to burrow into his backbone to get some marrow samples. I hated them for doing this, because each time as I sat outside the operation room and the doors would open; nurses wheeled out my unconscious father on his bed, his face pale and lifeless. After a few hours, he would wake up. Every time he did he would look so tired and encumbered. His eyes open slowly and narrowly, and he would try to speak but he would just give up after a few incomprehensible whispers and grunts. Even making hand gestures proved to be taxing for him. This man I'm facing is not my father, just a mere shadow of his former self. He would then go back to sleep and he'll regain a little bit of composure the next day.
When I was ten years old, my fathers' doctor called up my mother day one day for an appointment. I remembered as she hastily got ready that Saturday, abruptly talking a leave from her part time job as a food packager at a small food business operator in one of the houses in the housing area. As we got to the hospital, I waited outside the doctors room and entertained myself by observing old men in wheelchairs and walking sticks converge at the corner of the hall to have a chat, and a young boy in crutches limping out of his ward to go to the toilet, being supported by his mother. I heard mumbling from behind the door but couldn't get a clear reading of what was being said. But then however, I heard my mother exclaimed "One month" in a shocked and higher tone. A few moments later she came out and looked very grim. She got to me and without a word, grabbed me into her arms and began gushing out while clenching on to me tightly.
That week, my father was discharged from the hospital. I remembered being happy at first, to finally have my father back at home. I showed to him all my sketches from my scrapbook that I made for him to get him up to speed with what he had missed the whole time he was in the hospital. I also pestered him to take me to the Kite Festival being held at Fliers Hill. My mom was critical of this as she wanted dad to rest. My father, however was determined to take me to the festival and said something along the lines of this being his only chance.
And so, we went to Fliers Hill the next day. My mom had to work, so it was only me and my dad. I remembered outpacing my father as we walked up the hill. I often left him behind in my excitement of watching dozens of kites dancing in the night sky. He commented on how much I had grown. My father was running out of breath. He took short pauses before continuing on the path. At one point he stopped, and took a seat at a nearby bench. I didn't strayed too far and thought that my father looked awfully lonely, so I came and sat beside him.
We didn't talked much as my father went on to play with my hair, gently caressing my head. I could feel the bones in his frigid fingers as they went through my hair. And then, a loud explosion shook the ground and a magnificent shower of lights ensued.The firework display had begun. My father abruptly stood up, whilst his hands clenching on to mines. I was taken aback by this and immediately followed suit. We both stood there, at the edge of the hill, staring intently into the light show. I looked to my father, but his gaze was lost into the night. He stared mellowly, with the slightest grin forming on his lips. And then he gripped my hands strongly, the strongest I've ever felt from him. I didn't know why, but I suddenly had the urge to hug him. Clenching onto his thighs, I began to cry. My father, the weak man he was, mustered all his strength to pick me up into his arms and kept coaxing me in his soft, raspy voice.
" Be strong, Armin. Be strong for me. Listen, I won't be here forever, and If one day I have to go somewhere, I need you to take care of your mother for me, okay? so I need you to be strong."
" Why? Where are you going? Do you have to stay in the hospital again? I promise I'll come everyday, and mom can come too so you don't have to worry. You'll stay with us, right?"
" I'm always with you, like how you'll always be with me. Listen, if you keep the people you love in your heart they will never go away. I have you in my heart with me, always. Promise you'll keep me in your heart too."
" I promise."
" Good, now whatever happens, nothing can separate me from you. I'm always here for you.."
And my memories began to fade. Six days later, my father died in his sleep.
Now thirty years later, I'm at the same spot for the first time with a son of my own. He asked me why I had cried as the fireworks started. I gave him a smile , picked him up into my arms and gave him a kiss on his temple.
"I promise I'll always be there for you."
