This is a damp story about the post-80s generation.
It has been ten years since my father died. Whenever I think of him, it feels as though I'm trapped in an unreal dream, unable to believe that he is really gone.
And yet, even so, I rarely dream of him...
Are there really ghosts in this world? Since my father died, I've hardly ever dreamed of him. How could there be ghosts? When someone is gone, even dreams are too stingy to offer a little warmth, let alone any talk of ghosts and gods.
If ghosts could cross the cracks in time, my father would be standing behind me right now, watching me type.
He wouldn't need to say a word. Just repeating the way he used to straighten my crooked collar would be enough to break me. But even dreams have become a luxury, never mind ghosts.
I've become more sentimental than I used to be. It feels as though ten years of southern winds have soaked my sorrow, leaving it damp and clinging.
For these ten years, I feel as if I've kept catching sight of my father behind crowds. At the corner of an intersection in the vegetable market, he'd hurry past with his toolbox slung over his shoulder. Outside the balcony on New Year's Eve, he'd look up at the fireworks and listen to the wind. Even now, as I type, my right shoulder blade feels heavy, as though his tool bag should be resting there.
Memories hidden in the corners of everyday life still sting me when I least expect it. Passing a street we once walked together brings the familiar scene rushing back and carries me into the past. Hearing a familiar hometown accent makes it seem as if my father is calling to me, but when I turn around, all that remains is endless loneliness.
Perhaps on some quiet night, when the southern wind rises again, my father's figure will pass through layer upon layer of mist and appear in my dreams. Until then, all I can do is hold on to this damp sorrow and remember him alone in the current of time...
Touched👍👍👍