Polaroid

Bean

Looking at these old pictures and cameras that you once owned, while being surrounded by all your other remains, I remember how once in your lifetime these signified your hopes and dreams. The faint scent of the films and memories lingers in the air, whispering stories of a father I knew, and a man I thought I knew so well.

The very last moment that we photographed was my 16th birthday. Celebrated it with just the two of us in a small beach resort far from the city. It was surreal; it seemed like we owned the resort because we were the only people having fun there. The white sand, the fried tocinos and eggs, the dogs playing with the waves, the sunset, everything. You were happy back then, Pa. We were.

As I leaf through the pages of the album, the memories locked in the images and the pictures of you smiling—these etched with the weight of a heavy heart. I still cannot fathom how and why you did what you did, Pa. I still blame myself for everything. I could’ve helped you. I could’ve stayed longer. I should have noticed. Why would a man as strong as you succumb to the depths of despair? Why?

And then I came to the last page of the album which I never, even once, saw. That one polaroid tucked into the pile of our other keepsakes and crumpled with age held the untold stories of your struggles and pains. Written there were the words of your true identity, fears, judgements, afraid—you wrote of the relentless ache that gnawed at your soul, the longing for acceptance that you never had felt.

Tears welled up in my eyes as I recalled everything about you, feeling an indescribable mix of sorrow and empathy. I never knew the depths of torments you were into, the heavy burden you carried, the silent cries you did. How I wish I could turn back time and tell you that your presence and happiness meant more to me than any preconceived expectations.

In that moment, understanding washed over me like a gentle wave and mingled with the sorrow that still clung to my heart. I have come to realize that your death was not solely the result of depression, but also the crushing weight of your hidden truth. You had fought a battle within yourself, a battle you ultimately lost as you believed you would only bring disappointment and shame to those you loved.

But now, as I close the album we both crafted, my love for you overflows, knows no boundaries, and transcends any forms of judgment and disappointment. In this moment of remembrance, I find solace in the hope that your struggle and truth will never be in vain.

I am sorry you had to go through this, Pa. I still desperately regret that I was not able to give you the safe space you deserve, that you didn’t need to hide and be weighed down by the fear of letting down those you hold dear.

This month, I celebrate you, I will always celebrate with you, and I love you.