I regularly think about my father. He passed away 6 years ago, which feels like a whole lot of time. It’s strange though, because I can so easily relive how I felt back then, as if it was yesterday. I don’t share those feelings much because people usually don’t discuss losing someone except in the context of discussing loss. It’s considered a bit strange to open up on the subject when it’s uncalled for - and yet that’s what I’m doing now. Well, this is my blog so I can write what I want I guess..

My dad passed away in Reykjavik on April 15, 2015. I was approximately 5000 km away from him. A few weeks earlier I had said goodbye to him at the international airport in Cairo. There I was, staying behind in his country, him departing (stopping briefly in the UK) before going home to Iceland, where he passed away. For about a month we had spent time together with our family in Egypt, it was one of the dearest things I can think of in hindsight. However, I also must admit, I was tired of everything related to his illness. I was tired of the sadness, the pessimism, the despair and I sought ways to forget it. I took everything in, the food, the ambiance, the way of life and I might have been a bit too careless with some things. But I guess this is normal in that situation of numbness, when faced with imminent death of a loved one.

Before he left for his flight, I sat with him at the airport. We waited for him to get a wheelchair as he was too weak to walk through the terminal. We had a nice chat before the chair arrived, but mainly about the day itself, travelling and whether he was looking forward to the trip to the UK. I mean, what can you discuss with someone you know has little left? Death? The afterlife? Well, that would be a very Egyptian thing to do, but no, we had a perfectly normal conversation, we even laughed together (I was very glad my cousin Yasmine was there too, with her radiant smile even in the hardest situations). Then the wheelchair came, along with a cheerful young man. Off you go then, better not be late for your flight elsku pabbi. He never wanted to be late for anything. So, better hurry, don’t linger here too long, you must go through security and everything, right, love you, now, see you soon and have a safe flight.

As soon as we stopped waving each other and I saw he was about to disappear into the terminal, joking around with his newly found assistant, the thought crept in. You know, those moments where the universe is really telling you something - you try to brush it off, but afterwards it was so clear.

You wont see him again, Miriam.

I desperately tried to catch a glimpse of him again, at the same time as I (quite co-dependently to the situation I might add) hurried out of the airport. I often feel like I should’ve ran through the airport, break through the security and yelled at him to just come back - Just come back one last time, pabbi!

But I didn’t and that was done. I waved goodbye to my dad as he was going on a trip and that moment lingers on in my mind, vividly, still today. As if I sent him off to the journey he needed to take to the afterlife - even though he would make his trip to the UK before spending his final weeks in Iceland. I just never saw him alive again, in person, so I must cherish that sending off. He was smiling and waving and going on a trip - on an escalator up to the heavens - and I can remember it that way.