My dad was a drunkard. He wasted himself on alcohol every single night. Though he was a drunkard, it was not as if he completely neglected his duties and responsibilities.
My mom had died while giving birth to me. My dad had lost something very precious to him. From what some of my relatives told me, my dad was deeply in love with my mom. So when she died, he was devastated. It would not have been surprising for him to neglect me or blame me for his love's death. Heck, my aunt said that she even thought that he would commit suicide. But, he did not.
Instead, he chose to raise me, thinking of me as the last memento of his love. I was the only proof that he had of her existence. So, despite being battered by the loss of his loved one, he raised me, single-handedly, making sure that everything I needed was provided for.
He lived a very hectic life. I realized that as I grew up. He would get up in the morning, feed me, prepare food, and then rush to his office. After the office finished, he would immediately come back home and start preparing dinner while he helped with my studies. In order to reduce the weight he had, I started studying diligently so that he would not need to worry on that front. I also learned to do some minor housework to help him.
By the time I was in my final year of middle school, I was able to do every chore. I could cook, vacuum the room, and do laundry and dishes. I could do everything. That meant he would not have to worry about the housework any longer and he could take it easy. He probably realized what his son was doing and what for, so I remember the day when he hugged me tight and cried the whole night. It was the first time I had ever seen him cry.
When I started high school, that was when he started drinking heavily. Perhaps thinking now that he was freed from his duties of having to take care of me, he started getting loose. He used to have drinks now and then but after I started high school, he was clearly taking it too far. I did not say much thinking that he deserved to do what he wanted to some degree. He had spent so many years of his life, rusting, so that he would raise me to be who I am today. So I sympathized and did not say much at first.
But when things were getting out of hand, and he kept coming home drunk every single night, I worried for his health and I sometimes warned and scolded him. He would just laugh it off and then pass out on the bed.
Now, I was in my second year of high school and his drinking habit only increased. He was now a chronic alcoholic.
I had found out where he drank. It was a small bar that looked like a coffee shop a kilometer away from where we lived. There were times when he would just pass out on the bar and would not come home. I remember how panicked I was the first time around. I feared that he might have gotten into an accident or something. Later that night, a black man with a shaved head came to my house, carrying my dad on his back. He told me that he had passed out at the bar and came to drop him home. After that, the scene of Anthony - the black man - carrying my dad on his back in front of our door became frequent. I did not want to trouble him more so whenever dad was late I went to the bar myself to bring him home.
One night, I was pissed off at my dad. He was not yet home and I knew I had to go to the bar to pick him up. Again. When I went to the bar, sure enough, he was there. I carried him back home and took him to his bedroom.
As he was trying to take his shoes off, I told him, in a harsh voice.
"You should seriously stop it, dad."
"Stop what, my son?"
"Stop drinking! I can understand drinking occasionally to blow steam and I have no problem with that but you come home every night completely plastered. You should know it has serious repercussions on your health. You can die, you know? So why the hell do you have to drink to this degree?"
That might have been the first time I had ever spoken in such a high and rude voice to my dad.
In response to my serious questions, he just smiled.
"I know, son." He said. "I know that I could die. I am aware of that. But I can't stop."
"So you are completely addicted, eh?!" It was clear to me that he was addicted to drinking a long time ago.
"No, I am not addicted. It's not that I can't stop. I don't want to stop."
"So you have a death wish, I see."
"Yeah, maybe. But there is another reason."
"What may that be?"
"When I am drunk, I see her. Your mom."
That made me widen my eyes.
"What are you talking about?"
"Whenever I am drunk, I see your mom. In my drunken fantasy, your mom is still alive. The three of us are living happily together. I can touch your mom in there. Every day. That is why I drink. So that I can lose myself in my drunken fantasy."
When he talked about mom, I found myself to be at a loss for words.
He had been drinking like this for more than two years now but it was the first he had ever told me this. Maybe he thought of telling me the truth when he saw how angry I was today. How did I know that it was the truth he was speaking? Because my dad loved my mom. There was one thing I was sure of. He will never lie in matters relating to my mom.
I just looked at him, dumbfounded.
All these years, this was the first time he had talked about mom with me. The fact that he told me he drank so he could meet my mom in his dreams broke me. He still loved my mom. He still has not gotten over her. Just how much did he love her? I could not even imagine.
When he talked so passionately about mom, I found it difficult to scold him further. Though I did say my piece.
"If all you want to do is meet mom in your dreams, then you don't have to drink, right? You can see dreams without drinking. You can even daydream about her. Human imaginative powers are amazing after all."
"Yeah. I could do that. But there is a huge difference between the two."
"What?"
"In dreams. after you wake up, you realize that it was just a dream and the reality that follows afterward crushes you. But, when I lose myself in my drunken fantasy, it doesn't feel like it is a dream. It feels real. I could see her. I could smell her. I can touch her. I can feel her warmth. Everything feels real. As if that really were the reality. That is why I lose myself in alcohol, in my drunken fantasy, so that I can be with your mom. For real."
You are crazy.
I shoved those words down my throat. I did not want to deny him the one form of solace he had. It was the only thing that had kept him going for the past two years. I knew that. Thus, I decided not to touch much on such a delicate subject matter. Although I did not understand the logic behind his drunken fantasy, I dared say nothing more. I did not want to hurt him more. So, I just decided to caution him from drinking too much.
"Please, dad. Just don't drink more than you can handle. You may die."
"It might be good. I can finally go and meet your mom in heaven and I can tell her proudly that I raised our son to be a wonderful person. Don't you agree?"
"Though I wish you don't go die on me now, yes, I completely agree." Despite all the odds, he had raised me to the best of his abilities. I really loved and respected the sacrifices he had made for me. He had his shortcomings, but he was the best dad I could have ever asked for.
"Yeah, mom will probably be proud of you for that." And I will always be proud as well to have had such an amazing father to raise me.
"Right?" He gave a satisfied smile and passed out. I turned off the lights, closed the door slowly, and whispered to him, "Good night, dad. Hope you meet mom in your dreams."
I had only hoped that he would meet mom in dreams but apparently, that was not enough for him anymore.
That was the last conversation I had with my dad.