Last Wish

They met at a party. My mother was 25 and my dad was 32. It was a cold January something right after the festivities, somewhere where nobody had quite sobered up.

Mother had stumbled and fallen into a pile of snow outside while attempting to smoke a cigarette. All my dad could see were long legs wearing black tights stretching out of fluffy frost. Heroically helping her up, guarding her back indoors after serenading "Hotel California" - it was love at first site.

Two-three years later I was born. Then my brother and my sister. We lived in a tiny farmhouse in a valley that was surrounded by thick forest. We were allowed bare feet outside, to chase frogs, and to make as much noise as we pleased. It was truly a beautiful place to make first memories.

The kitchen in our cottage was always filled with pipe smoke and our drinking water came from the light blue bucket that mom pulled up from the well in the front yard. During hot summer days, dad and I ate salted fish and he let me try a sip of the foam from his beer mug.

Sadly he was there not enough, he drank and was away for weeks - months even. After thirteen years of "I'll quit tomorrow" mom finally reached her limit, this time for real. Dad moved out and kept on drinking. I had to visit him in secret, the end terms were not good between them. His hangovers got worse by years. He often complained of chest pains, describing how his heart is skipping beats - always self medicated with an alcoholic beverage. It was a vicious battle that seemed to never end.

Once he told me how he had a dream. In his dream he saw me standing in the kitchen holding a fistful of green scallions and he swore that I could have not been older than three. He told me that I walked over to him and said "everything will be ok."

I could never shake the feeling of guilt, even in his dream I feel as if I should have done more, perhaps hold his head?

In early December on 2012 I got a phone call from my younger sister. My father was found dead in his apartment in Helisinki. His heart skipped a beat and another... Until there was no beating at all. I wish I could have been there, holding his head and making sure that everything will be ok.

We cremated him and stuck the urn at his parent's plot. That was his sister's (my aunties) idea, my mom hated it. Mom knew what he really wanted.

My dad grew up near the sea. Often he drank alone by just sitting at the beach, watching waves pull in... He could have sat there for hours, listening and wiping an occasional tear. I was always intrigued what saddened him so much, he used to say that the sea told him all the sunken ship tales.

Now I know that he was just homesick.

One afternoon while discussing worldly matters with mom, years after dad had passed, I heard her confess.

Our lunch consisted mainly of Chardonnay so any truth was about to see daylight. She started by stating that above all, she is grateful for three beautiful kids he gave her. She described a line of speed she snorted, grabbing a garden shovel and a flashlight. She got an uber to the cemetery, found the spot where his urn was buried and dug his ashes up.

The next morning she took dad-in-a-box to the sea, where he longed, to his spot where he often sat for hours, missing home and listening the sea stories.

She granted him his last wish and set my dad free.

Even though my mother held a grudge for a long time, even they ended on bad terms- even mom had a tough time with him... I am impressed. I am impressed and thankful, relived...

At that very place I stood a few months back and when the wind blew it felt like his palm on my cheek.

Thank you mother - thank you father. I can feel your love,

- your daughter.