Rindu Abah

Seventeen years. That’s how long it’s been since Abah left us. It’s strange to think about how much time has passed because, in a way, I’ve lived my whole life without him, and yet, his absence feels like a constant presence. I was just two years old when he passed away—too young to remember his face, his voice, or the way he used to smile. It’s like a part of my life was taken before I even had the chance to hold onto it. It’s an emptiness that I carry with me, a void that sometimes feels overwhelming.

Sometimes, I find myself wondering what life would have been like if he were still here. Would I have been different if I had grown up with him? Would I have inherited his kindness, his wisdom, or maybe just the way he laughed at silly jokes? These are questions that linger in my mind, but they’re questions that will never have answers.

But as much as I feel that emptiness, I know it’s only a fraction of what Ibu must feel. She had to pick up the shattered pieces of her life and carry on without him, raising us all on her own. I know she tried to stay strong for us, but the pain of losing Abah never truly left her. Whenever I miss Abah, I know she must miss him even more. Whenever I feel that deep, aching void, I know Ibu feels it even deeper. And whenever I find myself needing Abah, I can only imagine how much more she must have needed him, how much she still needs him even now.

I wish I could take away that pain from Ibu. I wish I could have been old enough to remember Abah, to share stories with her about him, to keep his memory alive in a way that’s more than just a few faded photos and secondhand stories. But all I can do now is be here for her, to try to make her proud, to let her know that everything she’s done for us has mattered.

Abah may be gone, but he’s not forgotten. I see glimpses of him in the way Ibu talks about him, in the way she smiles when she recalls a memory that only she can remember. I hold onto those moments, even though they’re not mine, because they’re all I have of him. And sometimes, I think that maybe, just maybe, he’s still looking out for us in some way. I believe he’s watching over us, proud of how Ibu has raised us, proud of the family we’ve become.

The stories I’ve heard about Abah—his kindness, his generosity, and the way he touched the lives of those around him—make me wish I had the chance to know him myself. It’s strange how a person can feel so present through the stories and memories shared by others. They remind me that although I never knew him directly, he lives on through the impact he made on the people he loved and the values he instilled in those who knew him. As I build my own life, I hold onto these stories as a way to honor his memory, letting his spirit guide my actions and decisions, and ensuring that his presence is felt even in his absence.

As I sit here, seventeen years after his passing, I can’t help but ask for something from you, the reader. If you could, please take a moment to make a doa for Abah. Pray for his peace, wherever he is, and for Ibu, who has been through so much.

Abah, even though I never got to know you, I feel your presence in every step I take. And I promise to carry your memory with me, today and always.