I am writing to tell you that we are holding strong. Well, at least the children are. Elosy joined class one a week ago. She loves her dress. She made new friends. She stopped saying, “tie my ponytail like the way mummy used to.” It breaks my heart. I did not want her to forget you so soon. But what can I do? These kids grow up so fast. Myron started talking. He says, “Daddy ….. ichiko,” to mean “daddy here we go.” It is the aqua blue tricycle I got him. He comes to the kitchen when I am cooking. When I am alone with you in my mind, he would ask, “Why are you crying father?” I would tell him, “it is the onions, son.” Then I tickle him. But deep down I know it is not the onions.
Hard times hit us. They retrenched us. They said it was the Corona virus. I sold the Note. With the money I got from it, I started a timber shop and hardware. I called it Olivia Holdings. I did this in your loving memory. My mother came for Troy. She told me to get back to my feet first. Elosy went to her aunt. She will not talk to me. She hates me.
It got lonelier as the years went by. I met someone. She is not you, but she is nice to Elosy, Myron, and Troy. They adore her. She loves maxi skirts and African Ankara dresses. When she gets mad, she scribbles her frustrations on a piece of paper. Just like you did. Send me the rain, wind, or the stars. You can tell the universe who is your great pal to help you in sending me a sign. I need to know that you are okay with this.
Troy graduated. I patted his back. He is 25 years old now. They call him Daktari now. He laughs it off. He dedicated it to you in his speech. You would have been proud of him. I tell you would be happy of his progress. He mumbles awkwardly and runs to the washrooms. He tells me it is the pee. It is not the pee. I know he did not want me to see him shed a few tears.
Elosy brought her daughter home. She has brown, inquisitive eyes. They remind me of your eyes. Nope, they are your eyes. The little one holds my finger so tightly. She says “grandpa” while laughing, and she dances in my arms. I rush to the washrooms. I tell them it is my bladder. But it is not the bladder. It is not about the bloody bladder.
They admitted me last week. The doctor is Myron’s long term friend. He gave me three weeks at most. Myron will not meet my eyes. Olivia – Elosy’s daughter – brings me passion juice. She says, “I made I grandpa.” And she holds it to my mouth. I choke on the juice. I tell her it is my small throat. It is not.
So today is the day. Myron’s eyes are red. His son looks like me. They are both silent. Elosy is holding onto Olivia. She is no longer dancing. They are mumbling something with the priest. But I am happy. Finally, I get to give you this letter Olivia. You have missed out on so much.
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