After the burial, we came back home.

That was when it really started.

I began to see fragments of my father everywhere.

The chair where he used to sit.

His room.

Certain corners of the house that suddenly felt louder in his absence.

I would catch myself thinking I saw him, only to remember he wasn’t coming back.

That was when the wishing began.

I wished I had spoken to him more.

I wished I had asked better questions.

I wished I hadn’t let distance grow so quietly.

My father was a deeply prayerful man.

A calm, contemplative Christian.

And in his absence, my mind kept returning to things I had heard before we stopped talking.

Things I never got clarity on.

Were they true?

Were they misunderstandings?

Did they even matter anymore?

I had questions I would never get answers to.

No explanations.

No letters.

No final conversation.

Just silence.

And that silence made me confront something painful:

Life doesn’t always give closure.

Sometimes it just ends the conversation

I kept asking myself why.

Why him?

Why then?

Why like that?

There was no illness we prepared for.

No warning.

Just a fall… a stroke… and three days later, he was gone.

No logic.

No meaning I could immediately understand.

That was when I realized how fragile life really is.

How easily people become memories.

How quickly “later” disappears.

Since then, I don’t delay conversations the same way.

I don’t assume there will always be time.

I don’t store important words for another day.

Because sometimes, the questions remain unanswered forever.

And sometimes, the people you expect to return…

don’t.