The Long Way To Say It #297

Just a night before I went for my youth service posting in a strange land where the possibility of kidnapping is so high even till today, my father called me. I was still using one of these unstable network lines, so it was crackling and never behaved properly after dark.

After discussing about my movements, how many of us are going, the place of meetup, the time to depart, and whether I didn't forget any documents, he said a simple prayer for me followed by, "Sleep well, my son." That was our whole discussion, and even before I said anything, the line had already dropped.

I cannot remember, or let me put it this way, I do not think I have told my father that I love him. Not directly. Definitely not with those three simple words, not for once that I am not mature, with my own quiet decisions to make.

What I said instead are the very and literally functional things, like, are you feeling okay? Are you eating? Hope all is well. Is the weather not affecting you? Is the generator working? How was your day? Hope no problem. Whole moments of feeling pass through different reports and different updates, coded so carefully that a stranger listening in would hear two men discussing errands, never once suspecting how much warmth is folded inside the checking.

At some moment in my life, I used to think maybe this was a gap between the two of us. But recently, I have gotten to realize that it might just simply mean the grammar we both learned early, and none of us has considered replacing it.

That night, "Sleep well, my son" was the closest either of us has come to saying it plainly.
I still haven't said it back. But somehow I think he already knows.

Thank you for reading.

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