Days had passed, it was my father's funeral. Although a lot tried their best to pay respect, I still couldn't find the reason why he died and didn't wait for me to at least bid farewell.
It must've hurt a lot, Papa, right?
People can become strong enough to talk at the iron bars that confine them and watch them bend out of the way, as if by some strange sorcery. That is what love is capable of: repairing souls, repairing minds, and curing us all. I wish I could have perfected that method, but it's difficult when you've been hungry for so long.
He can sit and request assistance. He can put on a mask of coping and normalcy and appear as if there is no cage. He can scream at the bars. What love simplifies, however, no other thing can solve. There is another way out, but it leads to even more agony.
I stood up and faced in front of his smiling picture. I sat in front of his immaculate coffin. Little I had known tears went down rolling my cheeks.
My emotions become jagged once more, and my insides tighten. "I love you, Papa! Please come back at me," I said to everyone within reach. "Come sit with me, Papa, hold my hand. Eat ice cream with me, Papa. Call me your son once more. Look into my eyes, connect, for I'm longing to have you!"
I wait, wide-eyed, heart in my mouth, hoping for kindness. I need a hug, even if it is just words. I need soothing like a child. Instead, my aunt balks, "This isn't a great time. So much on a funeral and your uncle is away on a trip. Let's just say I'll call you when I have the time. Please, call me after you've loosened up. There's something I have to discuss with you regarding your father's debtors."
"But I need my father now, I'm lonely, I feel so abandoned. Just come, make my father come back to life! Won't you please, please help me? Say I can come to help you; let me and my father just be together again. I need him, I need company," And then hot tears, ones they will never see, fall fast and thick onto my suit. I can feel the dampness of my skin and each drop that falls from my wide eyes.
"You know, my child, I've always admired your zeal for life. You're a go-getter, a survivor. I like that, you'll be great."
That's when I realize. That's when it dawned on me. Even though I'm an adult, I'm still a kid in time-out. So I know what to do; this is familiar in a horrible sense. I swallow the anguish, eat it up in my stomach, put on a passive expression, a timid grin, and seem submissive.
Aunt cannot see it, but the acting gets me where I need to go. "Yes, you're correct. I'm really sorry. I'll be OK. I have some interesting new projects coming up. Give my love to uncle." She's pleased - she still thinks I'm errant, not quite right, but at least attempting to fit the mold.
When it started, I knew it was going to break me. When it came up, I realized there was too much below deck to not crush my neatly prepared floor. Breaking was difficult, and recovering was nearly impossible, but I am creating the best map I can of my trip. Drawing it out the manner I do help, as does painting it in fine oils on a regular basis. Emotional suffering is difficult to bear, but using it to assist others feels like stabbing the devil in the heart.
Everything is recycled, or so I believe with these eyes. The atoms of one object combine to form the atoms of another. Energy from one location becomes energy in another. So, while I have no idea where you are or what God has asked you to become next, I'm looking forward to seeing you again and can feel your warmth in the ether. So, call it reincarnation or recycling, whatever you want. You're still here, and that's all that counts to me, Papa.
Without my father, I feel like a stone in a medieval period where I got stuck and couldn't move at all, waiting for someone to break me into pieces so that I could finally be independent. My father's my everything. How can I live without him now?
And thus, I've decided to quit boxing. I don't care about losing fame, I don't care about losing money. My father's gone now. How can I move on without him?
For so many years, I believed that I wanted the entire world to acknowledge my power, that I wanted to fulfill my desire, and that is why I became a boxer at such a young age.
No, it was not.
Now I realize that they weren't the genuine reasons I wanted to be a boxer. I wanted to be a boxer not for the glory, not for the money, and not to demonstrate how much I wanted to pursue my dream. I became a boxer to prove to my father that he had a son to be proud of. I wanted my father to recognize me.
That's why I decided to give him the belt I've won, to show him that I am his one and only son that he must be proud of.
Was he proud of me? Was he proud that he has a son like me?
Now that he's gone, how can I show him how worth his son has become? Boxing is useless now, better quit now, right?
"Papa, be well... I love you and forgive me. I am sorry for I have decided to quit the sport that you really love. I hope you can hear these words, Papa. I love you and I'm sorry!"
