My dearest papa

Death. I suppose I can talk about it here, this being the society section, the very section which carries, births, obituaries and appreciations. This is also my father's favourite section, because nestled somewhere here is the Sudoku puzzle.

Right now his half moon glasses are perched on his nose, his concentration undivided, his hands both of them holding the paper flat while reading Roamer's column, the whiff of the espresso still in the air. For Sunday is 'Paper Day'.

Foreign and local papers and magazines are strewn all over the kitchen table, everyone at home engrossed in their favourite bit, sometimes you hear a grunt, a laugh or a mzzz! Last Sunday we still bought all the papers, my daughter Pippa still informed everyone that they were 'nannu's papers' but she also never stopped asking 'nannu?! Where's nannu?' Her most favourite man in her whole little world has gone.

A brief moment, a freak brief moment turned our small world upside down: from simple contentedness to ugly tragedy. How dare the wind keep blowing? How dare the trees move with the gentle breeze? How dare people get out of their homes? How dare life go on? Why hasn't the world stopped? Or paused, at least?

I want to howl and holler and shake my fist at this stupid cycle of life and death and tell it to stop making us go through it. Stop. Stop. Tony is no longer here. My dear, dear papa is gone. Stop, I roar. Freeze. Shut down. But life ignores me. However much I resist it, however much I rave in anger at life, however much time I spend on the roof replaying what happened, wanting desperately to reverse time, I am being shoved to go on.

This week's cartoon is drawn by my sister. It's our way of keeping in touch, for we know pops, that you wouldn't miss the Sunday papers for anything in the world. And we know exactly where you are: On a heavenly cloud, surrounded by the morning papers, and a pile of Sudoku books.

Somewhere nearby the news channel is on, the Rocky movie DVDs on a loop, a laptop close-by for a quick game of solitaire, an espresso machine at hand, a mini library full of Grishams and Archers, Joseph Calleja and Pavarotti singing away on a CD in the background, and round the corner there's your very own personal woodwork workshop, with a personal angel instructor at hand. You're there but you're also here. You're still our rock, our wise man, cushioning us with a surreal sense of calm and serenity. You keep zapping us all the moments we shared together, all the lovely funny memories - like when we fell in a pond full of tadpoles in Buskett, or when you and mum drove me to hospital, in labour, in the worst storm of the year.

We're flanked by uncles and aunties - your brothers and sisters, whose little mannerisms are a reflection of you: the way they open cautiously a present not to tear the wrapping paper; the way they just react with a little smile and thank you and no jumping halloos however much they like the gift; the way they raise alarm when they hear a mobile ring ('mobile! mobile!'); the funny way they panic when something goes just a teeny weeny slightly off plan; the way they have absolutely no sense of direction; the way they drive with extreme caution, both hands on the wheel, swaying ever so slightly to the left, then to the right; and they way they soften and their face lights up when one of the little grandchildren, nieces or nephews comes up to speak to them.

These little traits make me feel at home. That's not to say I don't look out for you to see whether you're listening in to our conversations, where you're sitting, to whom you're chatting quietly. But I can't see you anywhere.

I can see your handkerchief here by your keys and your specs. I don't think you've ever used a tissue in your life. You always carry a neatly folded hanky. As a little girl I used borrow it all the time, safe in the knowledge you'd always be there. Even now at 30, I never considered a different possibility. You'd jump to the moon for me, sis, Pip and most especially for the love of your life, Gee. How can you not be here anymore?

Nowhere feels as safe as in your arms. How I wish you were here papa, just to borrow your handkerchief one more time.