Dad.

There's a man here in the library who's reminding me of you. Not physically, but his presence is like yours ( and maybe because I've forgotten bits and pieces of what your presence was like, given how long it's been, but forgive me.), and if I keep my nose buried in the book I'm pretending to read, I feel like you're standing here laughing with the rest of the people in here, disregarding the Silence Please sign like it doesn't exist. Like libraries are places where you laugh and talk loudly. The booming laughter, jovial demeanour.

I haven't thought of you in a long time, and when I do remember you, it doesn't make me want to cry like it used to in the beginning. But when this man starts talking, quotes verses from a ghazal, cracks everyone around him up, I'm not reading anymore. I'm not even pretending to. What I am trying to do is keep the tears from slipping out, and suppress the choked up feeling in my throat. This reminder of your persona throws me off guard and I don't know what to do anymore. So I sit, and listen, and wait.

He's probably one of your friends from the club, and I'd like to go upto him and ask about you, but I experience the familiar hesitation most young people do when trying to approach an old person. And anyway, it's awkward. So I don't.

What I do is wait and listen and think about you. I do miss you, and it does make me want to cry, but reminders are always welcome.