Not knowing

I love my father but I wasn’t aware of just how much until one day he disappeared and I was left alone with my fifteen year old sister. My sister means the world to me just as my father does. I’d do anything to have him back. I hope he’s alright but it’s been a year now and I’m starting to think something really bad has occurred. After all, why would he stay away this long? He wouldn’t dessert us, I know he wouldn’t. When my mother died of a brain tumour he made a promise to be there for us always and my father was never one to break a promise.

The police have discovered no clues. I pray to God he isn’t lying in a ditch somewhere. It scares Eliza to tears; she’s four years younger than me and a lot more sensitive. I think she thinks he’s dead. She’s not as optimistic as me. Neither of us is whole without him. It’s amazing how much our family contributes to who we are as well as who we turn out to be. I just pray that our family won’t be one of those families that has a member go missing, that never discovers what really happened. I think the worst is the not knowing. If he’s dead I’d rather know than go through life wondering, never finding the answers; just hoping, just praying.

Every time I walk down the street I find that I am examining every face, even ones that couldn’t possibly be him. I guess it’s desperation as I want to find him so badly. When you’re desperate, realism goes flying out the window. And let’s face it, I’m desperate.

My mother’s death was bad enough. I didn’t for the life of me think things could get any worse. But at least we knew she was dying. We had the chance to say the important things to one another. However, there have been no goodbyes between my father, Eliza and I; we may never be able to express our love to him in person again. I pray that he be returned safely to us every night before I attempt to sleep. But I think deep down I know it won’t achieve anything; it’s just another act of desperation. After all, my prayers did nothing for my mother. Sometimes I get angry with God. I’ve been loyal to him from a young age but look where it’s got me. My faith is wearing thin.

Often I go and sit in dad’s room and smell his aftershave so his scent is imbedded in my memory. Just like I smell mum’s perfume Red Door as it’s the closest I have to having her with me. I never thought I’d end up doing it with my father’s belongings. I had taken it for granted he’d always be there.

Sometimes I hear a car pull up outside and a car door slam. Thinking it’s my father, I run outside only to see it’s a neighbour and my heart plummets again. I burst into tears and return in doors feeling like such a fool.

I guess if I never know what happened to my father in time I will come to terms with it the best I can. It won’t be easy but eventually I shall have to move on in life and my father will be just another memory.