My father. 

Of all people I would write about I never imagined I would write about my father. My father was a kind man who bottled up his emotions. He was the one who strongly , steadfastly believed that men should not , under any circumstances cry. Maybe a small part of me hated this thought of his. Maybe that is why I did the things I did. The first time I made my father cry was in 12th grade. Someone has seen me and my then boyfriend taking photographs as a couple and told my mom about it. It was the first time I saw my father cry. Out of anger , embarrassment. For the life of me , I couldn’t imagine what it was about either having a boyfriend or taking a decent photograph with him that made my father cry. Later retelling the whole story  to my friends of being caught taking pictures with my boyfriend I would interlace it with humor and always leave out the part about my father ‘s feelings. My story would always end with them laughing about my distastrous encounter with a annoying uncle who stuck his nose in other people’s business. My narrating would end with silence. Each time I remembered my father ‘s voice choking with emotions. When I later sat and tried to analyse bit by bit what it was that made him cry I realised that it was his pain of having to see his daughter no longer a child , step into the actual world , as a adult to make her own choices. It was me being violated  a by a man . It was me saying for him that I din’t want him as my sole protector anymore . The second time I saw him cry was when I cried myself. My grandfather had just took his last breath and the whole house exploded into loud screams of pain and anguish and fear , vulnerable fear. For me I cried because it was my first encounter with death , seeing someone gasp for breath and completely give out the next moment . I cried because I was suddenly no longer a child anymore. This was what adult life was about. Screaming loudly without knowing why , my fear overtaking my love for my grandfather , I ran to my father yelling to kill me already , that this pain was so deep i couldn’t think differently. The second time he cried was that day. Out of love for me . I was scared to be in a empty room for the next two months . I would always hear in the silence , the sound of my grandfather’s last gasps for air and the wild screaming of my mother . I saw my father looking at me in concern whenever I would come running out of a room , panicking. I realised that his tears was always love only masked by hatred. And I don’t know whether to love or to hate him for that. 


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