Personal Narrative: Looking Back At My Dad

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I looked over at my dad. The face I’d watched age day after day for as long as I can remember. We’d never spoken a word to one another but he was still my father. It was difficult growing up, and would probably be easier if I had pretended he was dead but it was a comfort to know he was looked after here. I’d long given up hope he’d wake up, writing letters to Santa, the tooth fairy, and wishing on every birthday as I blew out my candles that he’d just open his eyes, a smidgeon. He had posters of awful neon scribbles when I was a toddler, heard my noisy rebellious rock music during my awkward teen phase, tried on my mortar board after graduation and ‘met’ my then fiancée , now wife. If I could pinpoint the day I gave up hope he’d awake and magically recognise me, I’d have to say it was when he didn’t stir after hearing the almost newborn wail of his grand-daughter Susi. Nonetheless I spent much time here when I needed to think. What does one think about when they are in a Coma? Do they lose all consciousness? Can they hear you? I often poured my heart out to my dad. I wondered what he thought of, all these years, eyes shut with dignity and a strange near smile etched on his face. Sometimes I wondered if he’d ever …show more content…
‘Avain’ he repeated. I got up and kneeled beside him, water from earlier making my knees wet through my jeans. ‘Yes?’ I said as my voice cracked, thick with emotion. He laughed, quite a deep laugh from his small frame, but as I remembered his youth I knew this laugh was his. It was almost like some kind of unique song. ‘Avain’ he said again, voice softer, gentler. His eyes smiled with him. How did he know my name? Could he hear me all along? After all those years? Susi ! Did he know about his grand-daughter, all my woes, all those years I spent with him growing up? Did he know how much my mother cared for him with every inch of her being and never once

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