My father passed away, just one month short of his 96th birthday, which would have been three days ago. We were shocked by how quickly his health deteriorated in the weeks leading to his death, then we became hopelessly hopeful when he had a fleeting reprieve. We thought that he would regain his strength and live to be a centenarian as everyone expected of him. Alas, the illness was unforgiving.
As a late child, born when my father was in his fifties, I grew up with the sense that he was old. And as I became conscious of our own finitude, I started to cherish every moment, however brief, that I spent with him. Now, happy memories of those times help me to overcome the sadness.
I curated these photos taken by me of my father. I feel a sense of urgency in them, as if I was trying to cheat fate of time that was never going to be enough for a son and his father.