Heroism
My father lived until 49. If I ever make it to 50, I’ll consider myself to have surpassed him.
In my mind, I’ve etched my father as a martyr. A man who lived his life for his family and died a quiet kind of heroic death. The only thing I truly regret is that he didn’t talk much.
Because he rarely spoke, our conversations could be counted on one hand—childhood babblings not included. We only talked when necessary. Sometimes about football, other times about my allowance.
When his life ended at 49, I hadn’t even started high school. Everything I would later come to know about his goodness and the stories of his life, I heard from my mother and his friends.
Maybe that’s how quiet people speak. He never talked much about life, death, music, or TV shows. But even so, I’d eventually learn he had shelves of Beatles albums and that he enjoyed the chemistry between Cybill Shepherd and Bruce Willis in Moonlighting.
I would also come to know that, in his final moments, he never let go of my mother’s hand. He passed only after she whispered to him, “We’ll be okay.”
And we were okay. But we’re talking about “eventually.” And “eventually” also includes the silent nights when my mother cried alone, or the way I tried to make sense of grief.
I didn’t cry at his funeral. Not because I wasn’t sad, but because something felt off. To this day, I still remember that feeling—and I still can’t put it into words.
From that day on, I understood: grief can’t be replaced by anything. Not by words, not by condolences. It stays, like an open wound that never quite heals.
I never tried to close it. I live by letting it stay open, and I speak to it almost every day. I didn’t cry that day, but the tremble in my voice whenever I talk about him became inevitable.
He never knew that, in my eyes, Jakarta would one day lose its charm. That someday I’d fall in love, have my heart broken, and get into fights on campus over girls.
What he should know is that his music, his style, the sound of his voice became a kind of salvation in my head. How his voice could shift from laughter to wisdom, just like how David Corenswet switches tones from Clark Kent to Superman.
And what he should know is that his life carried me to mine.
Last night, I dreamed my cat was picking at my wounds. It hurt—but at least it reminded me that I’m still alive.