(This image is purchased from Canva)
**
It was a Sunday in December. The twentieth, to be specific, of the year twenty-twenty.
It was a frosty morning, at around seven. I just finished attending our church service with our youngest brother. We were on our way home on a tricycle when my second brother called me over the phone.
“Why?” I asked. It was a very random call, but it made my heart beat rapidly.
Arthur rarely called me, and he only did so in dire situations.
The reason I was in panicking then was because he was left with our father, who was bedridden for a long while then.
“Why did you call?” I asked again.
“Can you hurry home? Let’s have a photo with Papa,” he said in a somber voice. His tone was alarming, though it was subtle and calm.
“We’re almost there,” I said, even though we were still a few meters away from our house.
I almost choked when I responded because I couldn’t stop myself from weeping. I secretly wiped the tears from my eyes, preventing them from falling because I didn’t want Billy, our youngest brother, to see me cry.
Arthur’s words echoed in my head, and it bothered me. It was as if he had sensed something undesirable was about to happen.
I could barely move my legs when we reached the gate. My body felt so heavy because of distress.
When I stepped into the house, Arthur hurriedly took his phone and set the camera. Daisy was also there waiting for us. We then assisted Papa so he could sit on his bed. I sat on his left and Billy on his right. Arthur and Daisy were seated on the floor. I felt an indescribable pain that time as if an invisible knife had cut through my heart, tearing it to pieces.
‘Arthur won’t ask for this family photo if he didn’t feel something was off,’ I told myself. I took a deep breath just to stop my tears from falling.
Despite the intrusive negative thoughts I had, I painfully smiled at the camera. But I wasn’t looking at myself. I was looking at Papa’s reflection. His gaunt cheeks couldn’t hide how sick he was. His thin physique couldn’t be covered up by the loose shirt he was wearing then. And even though we knew he was in pain during that time—he couldn’t sit for a long time because his back was torturing him—he smiled.
Even though in pain, I could see the happiness in his eyes. He was blissful that we took that family photo.
Mama wasn’t with us because she had passed away several years prior.
When we were done taking the photos, we went to do our daily chores.
Meanwhile, I couldn’t get rid of the thought and worry that Papa might no longer be with us soon.
And I wasn’t wrong. Because on the night of December twenty-one, at eleven, Papa passed away in my arms. I was the one holding him when breathed his last breath.
