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I
run my hands over the cover of the diary. Possibly, this was the last thing my father wrote in. Sure, he wrote academic papers, presentations, and lectures. But this, this might be the last thing he has ever written for himself.
This might be the last thing connecting him to the life he left behind. The last remnants of a past are not worth the memories. I felt its weight in my hands. I am not sure how to describe it. It is not truly heavy.
Of course, it is not heavy. But its significance, the weight it holds, the secrets buried in it, the unprovoked thoughts that only peek behind the curtain of one's mind through the dark of the night. I felt the weight of my father's life placed in my hands.
I experienced the weight of thoughts left unsaid and feelings left unexpressed. I felt the weight of the life he hid from me. Most of all, I felt the weight of him. The weight of him he tried so hard to hide from the world.
Was I scared? Yes. I am not sure why. Will I proceed with reading it? Also, yes. I have always blamed my father for everything. What makes me scared is that this diary will help me understand him.
Once I understand him, will I still blame him? If not, then who will I blame? I did not deserve the childhood I had; I did not deserve what was happening right now. And all of what was happening and what did happen is related, in a sense, attached to my relationship with my father. If he had not been my father, none of this would have happened.
However, if I end up understanding him, will I still think this way? If not, then what will I think? I feared being changed out of a thought process I had become accustomed to over the past few years. I sighed. That was no reason not to look at him as a human being.
I sit on the rooftop, letting the cold air chill me to my bones. I can see my own breath in the air. Moments like these always felt so surreal. I saw so many people passing by. Some were walking, some cycling, and some in their cars. Everyone existed in their own bubble, existing in a world they created just for themselves.
No one knows what the other might be going through, just like none of them know that someone is sitting on the rooftop, watching them, about to have her life perspective altered.
I opened the diary and let my hand graze lightly over the first page. It had become yellow due to the years of usage. It had his name and his number written on it. Jacques Frietz. I let my fingers glide over the smooth writing and straight letters. The ink, too, was fading due to the time effect.
Not yet, just a while longer. I want to enjoy my state of oblivion and ignorance just a while longer. I do not know where this trial will go or how much more I will have to endure. I was glad to have one of those rare moments where Max was not with me. I was glad for the quiet.
Even though Max does not talk that much, still, just feeling someone else's presence can be suffocating enough. She was not to leave till the trial was over. What will my life be after all of this? I have no idea. Maybe, I will finish my longstanding research paper.
Or maybe I will quit the academic world altogether and move to the countryside house and be close to Mrs. Waltham and Anthony. This city has nothing for me anyway. I came here to escape, Dad.
Turns out, no matter how far I ran, I could never exit the boundary created by his shadows. Life has been a rollercoaster. It has gone up and down these past few months.
It will take a long time to let go of the pain inflicted. I hope I can forgive her; I hope she can forgive herself. I watched a man taking his dog out for a walk. Such an odd time for a walk. Yet, the happiness on their faces.
There are only a handful of moments of such bliss, only a handful of moments of such serenity. I watched them till I could see them no longer. I built up my courage once again.
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