Short Messages to Dad - Letter C and D

* The auto posting failed and I failed to notice. I have edited it to add letters C and D in today's post. *

Letter C - Crab

Anyone who's lost someone to the crab will say this, that you have to struggle to try to remember the person before the diagnosis happened, because they really do change - as anyone would change - Mindy Kaling

I've met my share of crabs in my short life. Most of these have been the homo-sapien kind, although I encountered a couple of eight-legged ones on the beach. 

Some become close friends - one of them, 20 years older than me, still is - you know who I am talking about, don't you dad? You liked her too, as did any everyone who met Aunt. 
Other crabs were nice, shy, weird or rude. They were friendly and reserved; moody and talkative - much like me. 

And then - there were three - possessing all the negative traits of this sun sign and more - they made my life miserable, and yours by extension.

I believed all crabs were made equal. I was so wrong.

The worst of the lot was the invisible one - the villain who attacks innocents by pretending to make perfect cellular copies of them. It doesn't discriminate - age, colour, religion, sex, race, language, education, wealth, and country - doesn't matter.

This black monster chose you as his next victim - started off as benign and curable - weakened you -  an everyday viral infection killed you. No symptoms except constant back pain - brushed off as old age and worn out bones - could we have saved you?

Letter D - D Day

It doesn't matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was - Anne Sexton, American poet 

Today is the fourth day of the four month of this year. 

It's been a month since I last heard your voice. Come to think of it, I haven't heard your voice for longer than that, ever since they shifted you to the C.C.U. 

Four was my lucky number - my birth number, but now, I will forever associate it with the day you moved on to another realm - we will argue about these realms some other day.

You made promises - you broke them. I made promises - I broke them. You died early in the morning, in your sleep - in a coma.  A gentleman till the end -  making sure your children didn't have to run around getting things arranged. You gave loved ones enough time to make it to the funeral site. I called up two banker friends from Mumbai, who kept in touch with you, post retirement. Other cried over the phone but I had to hold back my tears, for later. 

Every one whose company you enjoyed turned up - some by the first available flight and some by road. It was a small group of 30 odd relatives that gathered around us, giving us strength and comfort.