Forgetting My Father

There’s something no one tells you about grief. It’s not just about missing someone. It’s about forgetting them.

It’s been a few years now since my father passed, and lately, a quiet fear has crept into my days. I’m forgetting him. Not just the small things — not just the funny lines he’d throw out after dinner or the way he’d clap his hands when he was excited. I mean I’m forgetting him.

I can't remember what his voice sounds like.

At first, I told myself that was normal. That it happens. I even tried replaying old voicemails, but I couldn't find any. I dug through videos, only to discover most of them captured everything but his voice. Just laughter, background noise, silent gestures. Even now, when I sit in silence and close my eyes, trying to conjure his tone, his cadence, his laughter — it’s just a faint echo. A blur.

And lately, I’ve realised I’m starting to forget what he looked like too.

Of course, I have photos. Dozens of them. But they feel… flat. Like they belong to someone else’s father. The warmth in his eyes, the way his lips would twitch before a smile — those details are slipping through my fingers like sand. And I hate myself for it.

There’s a particular kind of pain in this slow forgetting. It’s like losing him all over again, bit by bit, every day. It’s not a thunderclap grief anymore. It’s a quiet corrosion. The kind that eats you from the inside. I carry it with me in meetings, in long car rides, in the silence after the kids go to bed.

And no one really sees it. They assume that grief fades. That after a while, you heal. What they don’t realise is that grief doesn't go away — it just changes shape. It turns into guilt. Into silence. Into a flicker of panic when you suddenly can’t remember the way he walked, or the words he used when he was proud of you.

I’m terrified. Terrified of a future where he becomes just a name. A face in a frame. A story I tell my daughters that doesn’t feel real anymore.

But maybe this is the part of grief we don’t talk about enough — the fear of forgetting. And maybe, by writing this, I can hold on a little tighter.

So here it is: I miss you, Dad.
Even the parts of you I can no longer recall.

And if someday I forget everything, I pray I never forget how much I loved you.