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My old man
My old man always put others before himself, enduring silently for the sake of those around him. If he had but a single loaf of bread and saw another in need, he would offer it without a second thought, even if it meant going hungry himself.
My old man always talked about how proud he was of me — to the guests, to his family, to people he met, and to me.
“Yes, my daughter, she is so brave — just like me. She is now doing her PhD abroad, all on her own. She will be a Professor. Professor Sukma.”
After his funeral, every member of his family repeated, time and time again, that until his last breath, he loved me and was most proud of me. How much he believed in me, his forever youngest child.
It’s almost like a lullaby to me — those words, that he loved me so deeply and was so proud of me.
They bring me a small sense of peace, a quiet comfort amid this pain.
My old man was a strong man, but with each passing day, he couldn’t deny the weight of his age.
I remember teaching him how to change his laptop language to Bahasa Indonesia, though it moved at a snail’s pace.
He held his glasses like the old man he had become, squinting to read the small letters on the screen.
I choked back my tears, struggling to hold them in.
