Remember

The news about my dad's death was delivered to me through the phone, minutes after.

"Chieh, you have to be strong. You have to be strong for your mom and your sister."

That's all she said, and I knew. I cried. I screamed. I cried. I kicked the wall and punched the floor. I sat in silence. I cried. I lay in silence. I cried.

The night I returned to my parents' house, I walked into his closet, smelled and touched his clothes, and sat on the floor and sobbed until nothing was left. I did this after everyone else had gone to bed, and I did this several times during the week I was home for funeral arrangements.

I refused to view his open casket, because I knew that if I did, I would never remember him as he was in living flesh.

Since his passing, I've gone to his grave once. I thought I would speak to him, tell him about all the things that have happened, but nothing came out. I have a feeling it'll always remain this way.

Sometimes I imagine my wedding and walking down the aisle without him on my arm, like I'm supposed to.

It's been eight months, but there are still moments now where I realize that he isn't around anymore. If I glance at the garage door or walk up the stairs at my parents' house, it's almost like I still expect him to walk in, stern-faced and quiet. It's not that I have forgotten, but the fact that he's gone is something I repeatedly realize and digest.

These are things that I haven't told anyone. These aren't things I remember when I think about him -- when I think about him, I conjure up memories of the times we've spent together, his odd sense of humor, and his relentless dedication to making his family happy. Rather, these are things I think of when I think about the loss. Most of the time, the loss is barely palpable. But when it comes into focus, it's a roaring silence. It's like one instrument in your complex world of an orchestra going mute, and you don't realize it until you sit there and listen for its voice. And at that point, it's as if you've lost your ability to hear anything else. You forget all the times that the instrument has played off tune, and you know there is nothing else in the world that can sing the same way.

As much as I can try to relate, or as much as any one of your friends may try to understand and sympathize, your relationship with your father and your mourning is something nobody can touch. There will be parts that you may choose to share, and there will be parts that you won't ever tell. I will tell you that you appear to stand strong through it all, as you have said to me, but you and I both know that when the lights go out and there is nobody around to be strong for, that's when you really have to face your demons, wherever they are, and we often choose to do it alone because so few others can understand.

Coming to terms with this kind of loss is not easy, and I expect it never will be. The music will never be the same, but those who love us will always be around to be our metronome, to add their ooh's and aah's, to be our top-hats or, hey, our cow-bells. And sometimes, silence, a blank page, will be what you need -- your own moment to be. To remember. To be angry, to be hurt, to be pained, to be thankful. To spend a moment with him and to grieve. But just as you should remember that you always have the silence, please remember all those around you who are there and ready to start the beat again and put you back on the score.