The Journey Home: Father's Breath in His Homeland

When my father passed away, I always thought that grief would surge like a tidal wave, but time has turned it into a cup of warm tea - slightly bitter at first, but sweet after a long sip. It turns out that commemoration involves more than just kneeling and tears. The father never really left. He lives in these trivial and real days, in our still steaming life. And I write this not to dwell on the past, but to tell myself: remembering him means continuing to walk the road he failed to finish.