dear ana ❥ h.s.

ana

Sitting in the cafe brought back old memories of sitting here with my dad, drinking our coffees together and talking about how much I hated school. It was almost weird being here again, the only thing on my mind the fact that it'd been three years. I ordered the same coffee I had always ordered, sat in the same booth, and quietly wrote on my computer, like I always had.

For years, I avoided coming here in fear of the feelings that would consume me. I didn't want to be reminded of my dad, and I surely did not have the strength to cope with the pain it brought to my chest. I could still feel his presence, hear his laugh, feel his arms around me, even after three damn years. It was something that tortured me from the minute I woke up to the minute I laid my head down at night to sleep.

The smell of baked goods and brewing coffee brought back the fondest memories of my father, the most prominent one being our early-mornings of drinking coffee and watching sunsets; it made me miss him even more. It was those mornings where he seemed happiest, like it was something he could do forever. And those were the reasons it was my favorite memory, because seeing my dad happy made me happy.

I'd go deep into the situation, but basically, my dad was depressed. He had more prescribed medicines than he could keep up with, and he spent more nights laying awake staring at the ceiling than he did getting sleep. Every night he would try to convince me that he didn't need his medicine, but I somehow, every night, convinced him to take it. Until one night, when he plummeted farther than I'd ever seen, and smacked the pills straight out of my hand and slammed the door. I tried my best to open the door, using nails, bobby pins, hangers, anything, to unlock it. I could hear him inside crying, along with the brutal sounds of his fists contacting the tile floor.

"Ana, I'm so sorry." I remember him saying two minutes before none other than a gun went off, and the only thing I could bother to do was stand there in utter shock. I couldn't cry, I couldn't scream for help, all I could do was stand there.

It took over an hour for the police to get there, and when they finally did, all they did was take his body and pack it up like it meant nothing more to them than a pile of bricks. I remember the look on his face very clearly, despite my anger towards the cops. He was smiling, as faint as it was, and his eyes were closed. He was finally in his happy place, and I knew he'd be in heaven looking at sunrises and drinking hot coffee.

They left me alone in the house that night, after their routine of collecting evidence and taping off the room. They hadn't even bothered asking me any questions. Late that night, after hours of endless crying, I gained the courage to sneak into the room and dig around his drawers for any clues as to why now was the perfect time to die. In his bottom desk drawer was a journal, and each page was filled with letters to my mom, and on the last page, a letter to me:

Dear My Sweet Ana,

This is my official suicide note, and I hope one day you're reading it and you're not as sad as before. I want to give you one life lesson, a lesson I hope you hang onto forever:

Dying is not the end of the world. There are so many places to go, don't be afraid of death. Look death in the eye and challenge it. Do not be afraid to take death my the reins and tackle it - or something like that.

One last thing – love someone, love them with every fiber of your being. Fall in love, do not hold back. Let them destroy you, you'll be grateful.

With Love,
Dad

"Hey, Ana, good to see you here again." Angelina smiles, sliding in front of me in the booth. "How've you been holding up?"

"I've been good, I guess. I moved into my own place, somewhere where I'm not constantly reminded of him." I answer softly, rolling my shoulders back and leaning against the bench.