Yore

 My father often talks about his life of yore as a young boy. He has told most of his stories more than once, and I can see how much he enjoys reliving them. There is a beautiful sparkle in his eyes when he tells those stories. He is probably reliving the experiences in his mind.

All of these stories include an uncle whom we lost years ago. He was my father's best bud; his partner in crime. Sometimes, I can't fathom how they survived their childhood without losing a limb or two. Once they fell into a well, and there was another time when they set fire to a kerosene cart with firecrackers. (Not just limbs—I'm surprised they weren't killed.) They rebelled against a fake monk and chased him away. And he is still very proud of the day they raided a kasippu pot and destroyed everything there. (As kids, I guess they believed alcohol was evil.)

All of this happened a long, long time ago...

Although these stories start with excitement, the conversation always comes to the same point in the end. Most of the time, it ends with how different our lives would be if this uncle were still alive. (He lived next door and had a great impact on our entire family. You could rely on him for any kind of help.)

With this change of topic, I can see the sparkle in my father's eyes fade away. It breaks my heart. Being a man of his generation, he never shed a tear when we lost him and never spoke of his emotions. The only way he expresses his grief is by imagining how different life would have been if he were still alive.

I guess we can't help thinking about the people we have lost when we look back at our lives. While the nostalgia brought by our memories can be enjoyed, I feel that it's impossible to revisit the memories of those we have lost without feeling pain. No matter how much we have accepted that they are no more, it hurts. It always hurts!