Read only memory

There were times when I was not sure as to how to interpret my father's words. It was either the exhaustion or the tumour that interfered with his brain and thoughts and destroyed his ever before sane and clear logic. I would try to show him the pitfalls and I would see this look in his eyes. An absent look, a look that stared inside. I wasn't sure if it was fear I noticed in it because he saw the broken lines inside, or sadness that I didn't believe him anymore.

I remember some comments he made the last days and weeks. Words that suggested there were some files meant for my mother and us he saved on the computer's hard drive. He asked once for his mobile, he said he had to put some instructions in and program it. The same old handy I gave him some years before that he made jokes about, said people talked too much these days and he probably didn't need that, but he accepted it and I know enjoyed a lot - a fun new gadget for a computer fan guy. I handed it to him that day he asked for it, mentioned something about the phone not having the kind of functionality my father seemed to hope for. He took it, pushed some buttons, then I saw that look slowly creeping in his eyes. He put the phone away and laid down on his pillow, staring straight in front. Then he realized I was looking at him for too long and forced his eyes shut.

I checked his directories one evening. I knew he couldn't use the computer for a long time now but I had to put this childish hope to rest. We paid my dad's mobile operator fee for a year or so after he passed away, always kept the phone switched on. That would have lasted more if we didn't lose the note with the PIN in the mess the burglars left behind one day. I don't regret anything, though. I don't long for things untold, thoughts unshared. No file, no list of instructions could contain more than the bits and pieces that he had planted in me for almost twenty-six years.