Letters to Baba #4: I'd Rather not Write This One
Sunday, June 15, 2025 | 2:22 p.m., EST |📍My daily coffee shop
Hey Paps —
I’m not sure how to start this letter. I keep typing out a few words but then hit the back space, discontent with the flow.
I don’t want to write. But I need to write. So, here we go.
I’m not sure how I feel. I think I’m writing this letter to figure that out.
I think I’m okay.
I’m not super sad.
But I’m also not content with the situation of not having you here on Father’s Day.
Life, though, just is what it is. And so are my emotions.
Actually, I think I am content because I’m learning how to say Alhamdulillah in the good and in the bad and in the sad. Death, loss, emotions, these are just a part of the human experience. And I’m blessed to be able to remember today all of the beautiful moments that we’ve had together, and all of the beautiful moments like this where I’ll be able to write to you and lean into the love that we’ve had and always will have. But, I’d also prefer not to feel this way and just have you here still.
I don’t understand death, emotionally.
Objectively, it makes sense. We live and we die, just like the rest of life. As they say, it is just the cycle of life. But when death comes, there is a jolt, and empty space left, leaving standing the weird question of where did you go? Where did what made you you go? It seems odd that it would just disappear with your body in the passing of time.
I’m glad that I’m writing this letter. It is helping me feel connected to you and to Allah, the source of the world, the source that birthed our souls and holds us together, always.
In the beginning stages of grief, people like to say things like, “Your dad loves you and is still with you.” “He never left you. He’s just changed form.” At first, I was angry at these words, or at least frustrated.
So what? I’d want to say. That’s what you think, but I don’t know if I believe you. Is this just another tail you are telling me to comfort me, one like the tail of heaven and hell? Tails like this that you can’t prove. Maybe they are right. Maybe these mythical places exist. Or adults create them as coping mechanisms to fill the gaping holes of grief left in theirs chests.
I understand why people say words like this, but I don’t always feel warm towards the words when uttered. The logic of the sentiment often times feels like someone throwing a piece of twine to a person drowning in the ocean.
Each of us process grief differently — which I guess, again, is one of the costs of the human experience.
Paps, I don’t have elegant words today. They are chopping and the thoughts incomplete. I’m just trying to process again that you are gone, that this is my third Father’s Day without you.
I am puzzled as to why I don’t want to write out Happy Father’s Day to you. It was easy to write out this morning to my brothers who have children.
I’m not sure why I don’t want to say it to you. Maybe because writing it out forces me to remember and sit with the grief left by your death. Maybe writing it out reminds me, once again, that I’ll never be able to call you and wish you a Happy Father’s Day again.
Grief is uncomfortable. She feels different each time. Sometimes she is light. Sometimes she is heavy. Sometimes she is an achy hug, and sometimes she is comforting in a way, reminding me of all the happy moments we shared in the garden, in the pasture, in the hayloft, in your truck to the feed store. She reminds me of all those happy moments that I’d love to relive one more time, moments that feel like just the other day but are also worlds away.
I miss you, Papa. and it hurts to write out Happy Father’s Day, but thank you, thank you for being my father. Thank you for your love. Thank you also for the memory of those beautiful roses you grew in the garden of my first home. Now, I get to think about them and you and those happy garden moments every time I see roses.
Remember, 143. Always.
With all my love,
Patches
