If Only They Were Immortal

This Ramadan has been different than the previous for the family. Both my parents had recently resigned from their jobs. For years, I was accustomed to the "home alone" life. It took some time to get used to seeing my dad, physically, in the morning rather than occasional morning texts in the family Whatsapp group. Previously, most of our iftars were spent at restaurants - now, my mother cooks up a storm almost every single day. The "no food at home" excuse became invalid for random food escapisms since there was always something on the table.

A few days ago, my mum asked my dad to help buy a few things at the market. Since I needed to make a quick run to the store myself, I decided to accompany him. Once we reached the supermarket, as usual, I walked my own pace to the escalator. I looked behind and my dad was left, far behind. I waited for him to catch up, and once we got the next floor, again.. I walked my pace. I turned around, to see my dad - yet agin, being left far behind. Once he caught up, I asked him:

"Ayah, why are you walking so slow? Usually you're the one telling me to walk fast".
"Adik, I'm already old".

Then. At that moment. It hit me - hard.

My head started playing 1001 flashbacks of how I had been slowly observing my dad. How he would now complain of his backaches and shoulder sprains. How much white hair he had grown. The new wrinkle on the left side of his eye. The way he would sit on the brass garden chair overlooking the pond - just like how my late grandmother would sit on her lazy chair, overlooking the busy road in front of our kampung, once upon a time ago.

God knows how hard I held back my tears. I made rounds in the supermarket to act as if I was looking for something when deep down, I just wanted to hug my dad and cry.

If there was anything I could prevent in life, it would be to prevent my parents from getting old. They've poured blood, sweat and tears for me; giving me years of guidance, support and overwhelming, unconditional love. Where else can I find a place as comforting than in the hands of my parent's love? Nowhere.

It may be a bit early, but if there's anything this Ramadan has taught me, it would be to appreciate my parents more. I thank Him, always, for allowing me to wake up every morning, seeing my dad, on his brass garden chair and my mum, beside him reading the paper. I thank Him, for blessing me with a mother who has been adventurous in the kitchen cooking up a storm, and a father, whom without fail, will go to the bazaar almost every single day to get his daughter's favourite kuih talam.

I thank God for allowing me to spend yet another Ramadan with my parents, another Hari Raya with the both of them. Here's to hoping for more.

Selamat Hari Raya. Maaf, Zahir dan Batin.