We sat side by side in your car with no words being said. You, as cold as a porcelain statue, had no intention to bother me at all because you thought I didn’t want to be bothered. I, with cold hands and a heart beat slightly faster, was too afraid to tell that I needed you to bother me.
If you only knew that the only reason why I started to leave your calls unanswered was because I couldn’t stand hearing your sad voice coming from your broken heart. I knew you were disappointed. I knew I was a failure to you. I knew what damage I had caused to your hopes and dreams. I couldn’t take the fact that I had let you down, so I ran.
In your car, it was so quiet I wanted to cry. I wished you would turn your head from the empty road and looked at me just for once. But you didn’t. A tall invisible wall had been built between us. We had lost the warmth of this relationship, the joy of being together, and the laugh we used to share. I’ve missed you so bad but I couldn’t say it, a tear fell instead.
The memory of those bad times came haunting as vivid as the good ones. Some times in the past, I told you I was not heading the same direction as you were. I remembered your faded smile as I said my last goodbye. A heart was broken into pieces, it was yours.
As I leaned my head on the half opened window, watching the view rapidly changed, pondering myself with guilt, something least expected happened. It was kind of funny, actually. A cat crossed over the road and you stepped on the break carelessly to save the cat’s life. I leaped from my seat and knocked my forehead into the window glass, leaving a red obvious mark there.
“Oh! Sorry, sorry! Are you okay? What is that? You’re crying? Is it hurt that bad? Hold on, we’re almost there. I’m sorry, okay?”
The cold porcelain statue look had disappeared. You were over worried for a meaningless accident. To have an understanding that something this small could bring a big stream of concern in you, i knew I was loved. You broke the tall invisible wall and reached my forehead with your left hand as if you wanted to make sure that I was alright. With your hand on my forehead, I was cured.
“We’re here. Let’s take care of that ugly red spot on your forehead.”
“Dad, I’m sorry.”
“Nothing matters. You’re home.”
I knew Dad, with your hand on my forehead, I knew Dad. I was home.
Amalia Achmad, September 2011