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Resurrecting My Father’s Voice

My father and I would constantly communicate over the phone

It was the only way to make Detroit and Edmonton feel inseparable

As years went on I felt my sincerity plummet, I subconsciously adopted a fickle heart

Memories of our conversations became faint but this, this was different

I remember my voice reaching the peak of hate

Destruction became my first language

His became silence

The silence of his pain was the cause of my depression

I had an everlasting frown hiding behind the make up of a smile

Denial and regret flooded within me–regret devoured my serenity

It sat me in a pool of my faults and watched me as I drowned

Regret is an ocean of over thinking that eroded my heart into a weak, helpless rock

How ironic, I’m killing the only thing that keeps me alive

My heart was a deep trench in which darkness resided in

It swallowed my sorrows and left them whole in my stomach

It adopted Lucifer’s whispers and held onto them tightly

For a heart that is desperate to find happiness and for ears that are in need of sound to accompany them, his whispers were like a beautiful harmony that puts a heart to rest

Ears that are strangers to sound will always fall for his voice

He leads you to a path where even fireflies have lost their light

But I cut ties with him–

I dug a hole into myself and found what God had implanted in me

Death cuts deep but light is found in even the deepest of caves

August 15th, 2013, my father died in an explosion

The news of his death felt like an atom bomb dropping into the depths of my soul, causing a new beginning

His death radiated into the hearts of many and the flash shock left shadows of his remembrance behind

Fortunately, it triggered the emotion in me–he is the bleeding ink of my heart, he is the fuel to my fiery passion

I write because of him

I write the words that were buried under the rubble; the words that he locked up but only contemplation could reveal them

I write the words that his silence was so accustomed to hearing

I write to keep his words from disappearing

I write for his voice to be heard because it was hijacked by a ruthless killer

I write because this world needs to hear the voice of the oppressed; the voice that pleads for justice to be addressed

It’s ironic, he tried to find peace in a world that only knew about war–it was as if life tattooed struggle onto his soul

The burden of failure weighed on him heavier than the fear of death

He would rather die than be reminded of his pain, although, he had no choice, it seemed to be chronic

He left this world silently but his blood reeked of indignant pleads

And maybe, just maybe, If I continue to write, I could revive his voice into the heavens so the angels could recognize the voice that was left vacant on earth

About Hassan Ghamlouch

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