Exactly 4 years ago this day, my father died from a heart attack. He was 67. I never got to say goodbye. Just a body on a table who no longer could hear what I was saying.
Apart from being extremely upset that this didn’t hit me until a few minutes ago and that this is my first time away from home on this day (truly an awful son here…I knew something didn’t feel right the last 3 days, but I didn’t know what it was until now…why did it take this long for me to realize it?), I am overwhelmed by the reminder that it was my father who inspired me to travel, who took me on a backpacking trip through Europe when I was 9 years old. And it was my father who first got me into photography, only a few days before he died.
4 years later, I carry two of his favorite camera lenses and his soul on my back, seeing the world in the way he would’ve wanted me to.
For some reason, I can’t help it: I feel guilty.
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- At time of posting in Ha Noi, it was 28 °C - Humidity: 83% | Wind Speed: 4km/hr | Cloud Cover: scattered clouds