My Father’s Voice

In life, meetings and partings are inevitable. I lost my father early. In the very midst of the era of economic growth, my father was busy with work, and at home we hardly ever met or spoke. Even so, when he occasionally found the time, he liked to gather his friends and speak of his dreams; he was popular with young people and an understanding man. Partly because I was in my rebellious years, I could not think kindly of such a figure, and I remember that the quarrels between us never ceased.

One day, my father suddenly departed this world. Apart from my early childhood, I never made a point of connecting with him from my side, nor was I able to do anything for him as a son. Regret comes first—I wish I had faced him more earnestly and talked with him about all sorts of things. This is surely also because I have become a father of two myself, and have come to understand a parent’s feelings so keenly it hurts.

Now I feel I am on closer terms with him. When I am lost about something and look up to the sky and ask my father—go right, go left, I hear his voice.

“To me, your presence is still a large one. Thank you, Dad. I am truly glad we met.”