I remember it was my cousin's nth birthday. It was a big party, with lots of kids and balloons and games. It wasn't a particularly special birthday but I remembered feeling very happy after it. The next day, our grandma woke us up early. Her eyes were kind of swollen, but being a kid, I just pegged it as too much/less sleep. She sat us down in front of the telly and let us watch cartoons on it. And when we were on the funniest bit of the toon, she stepped in front and told us that our dad died. He was supposed to come home that day. And he did. But in a coffin.

Every year after his death, I write this story. Because I do not want to forget. Because forgetting him would mean forgetting our great times together; forgetting him would be forgetting my best friend.
I no longer feel sad when I write about the day we lost him. It's true that any loss, any void can be refilled. It may not be the same material of what was lost, but nevertheless, it is refilled. I do not want to say replace because I would never want to replace him. Because he and his death has taught me so much. Mostly about death, but most importantly about love and life.

I refused to see this before -- the loss of him has clouded my thinking, blocked all positive things: His death has brought upon me so much that without him dying, I wouldn't be this person. In a way, losing him was good, because then I found myself.

So here's to a celebration of your life through me, dad. Here's to the memories and stories that you have imparted to me. Here's to meeting you again soon.

Here's to faith. Here's to love. Here's to you.

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Now playing: Dance With My Father Again