Phone calls to my father

When I was little, my favorite part of the day was when Baba called me from his office. I liked the few words we exchanged. He always sounded cheerful; I never heard a different tone, never anger, or boredom, or even sadness. He just sounded happy. We had a chair that was attached to a small desk, where we placed the phone. The chair had a cushion, but no back so we had it against the wall. Sometimes when he didn’t call, I dialed his number, placing my small fingers inside the holes that corresponded with the numbers, and turned the white plastic circle. I asked Baba when he would be home, and he always asked how my day was going. I held the phone close to my ear because he spoke very softly. I liked that he worked outside, unlike my mother who was always home, and that he wore a suit to work. He gave me a sense of safety, for I assumed he had a good position at work.
The first time I saw him weaken was when he began having trouble walking and in need of medical attention. He was always a fast-walker, but he began taking longer coming up the stairs. He lost power then, and as time went on and he continued to age, he was no longer the same. Even now, he is so fragile that every day and every minute I fear that I will lose him. I realized this fear at a very young age and never coped with it.
As children, we imagine our parents as immortals and it is this thought that gives us comfort. We wait with the anticipation to grow up and experience this immortal way of living. We want to be like them because they seem so in control of life around them. If only we realized earlier that the time of childhood is possibly the sweetest time, and for some of us, the most peaceful as we are lost in our imagination, and the lives of those we look up to seem infinite.

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