And He Is Dead

My Dad, on the other hand... took care of me in every way he could. He wasn't anything fancy or powerful like my Mother. He was a mechanic. He fixed things, for those who couldn't afford to buy new ones.

Took care. Was. Fixed. Past tense.

He is past tense now. Dead. Rotten... no, not rotten, he is mixed with nature; as he used to say,

"If I die -"

"No... you won't die," I stubbornly interrupted back then.

"Everyone has to die one day," He said. He never hesitated to speak the truth,"Even you, too."

I still remember, I couldn't find anything to say after that. I just looked at his face.

"So, if I die," he looked at me. This time I didn't interrupt, "Will you make sure that I'm buried without a coffin?"

I was thirteen then. One week or maybe two behind my fourteenth birthday. At his comment, I nodded.

What else could I do? What else could I say?

But I asked, after a few moments, without thinking, "Why?" frowning in concentration as I looked up at my Father's eyes. They were almost black. Like mine.

He examined my face for a few seconds. Then he began,

"Most of the people wish to be cremated and then wish their ashes would be scattered in the Nature... it's their way, to be with Nature, forever. Even after their death.

"My wish is to be buried. So that I can fade away slowly in Nature and become a part of it. To be mixed with it."

He finished. He wasn't looking at me. There was a wistful look in his eyes... I don't remember anything more about that day.

Weird... huh?

Talking about death with a soon-to-be-fourteen years old boy...

He died after one week.

I didn't celebrate my fourteenth birthday