365 Letters To Heaven

Day 4: Letter to Heaven

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*Day 4: Letter to Heaven* (Part One)

*Dear Dad,*

Today began like any other, but as the hours passed, I found myself reflecting deeply on our shared moments and the void your absence has left. The morning sun filtered through my curtains, casting a warm glow that reminded me of our early morning walks. I could almost hear your voice, urging me to seize the day.

At school, I passed by the old science lab where we once conducted experiments together. The memories flooded back—your enthusiasm, your patience, and the way you made learning an adventure. I miss those times more than words can express.

During lunch, I sat under the big oak tree in the courtyard, our favorite spot. I closed my eyes and imagined you sitting beside me, sharing stories and laughter. The silence was deafening, but in my heart, I felt your presence.

Back home, I found myself drawn to your old study. The room remains untouched, a sanctuary of your thoughts and dreams. I sat in your chair, ran my fingers over the worn desk, and felt a connection that transcends time.

As I write this letter, tears blur my vision, but I find solace in these words. They bridge the gap between us, keeping your memory alive. I promise to continue writing, to keep our bond strong, and to honor your legacy in all I do.

With all my love,

*Ayo*

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*Day 4: Letter to Heaven (Part 2)*

Dear Dad,

After writing to you yesterday, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, wondering if my letters ever find you, wherever you are. I wonder if there’s a heaven mailbox. If the wind that brushes my curtains at night is your way of reading over my shoulder.

Today, something strange happened.

I saw a father and his son at the park while walking home. They were flying a kite together. The boy laughed so hard it echoed across the field. I stood watching for a long time, pretending I was just admiring the kite, but really... I was remembering.

Do you remember that blue kite you bought me when I was seven? You said it was "sky-colored, so the clouds wouldn’t see it coming." It got stuck in the branches of Mama Iya’s mango tree, and you climbed halfway up to get it back. We laughed all day about it. You told me, "Even if something gets stuck, son, climb after it if it’s worth it." I never forgot that. I never forgot anything you said.

Now that you’re gone, I feel like I’m still climbing trees—after your voice, your wisdom, your warmth.

At school, my friends say I talk less these days. It’s not that I don’t want to talk—it’s that nothing feels enough. Conversations about new music, football, or silly crushes feel so shallow when you’re holding heartbreak in your chest like a second set of ribs.

I also talked to Mum today. She doesn’t know I’m writing you these letters, and I don’t think I’ll tell her yet. She’s trying so hard to smile again. Some nights I hear her cry through the walls. I want to hug her and say, "He’s still here," but I know it wouldn’t be fair. Because sometimes I doubt it too.

But I write to you anyway.

I guess that’s my way of climbing after something worth it.

More tomorrow,

—Ayo

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*Day 4: Letter to Heaven (Part 3)*

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Dear Dad,

I promised I’d write every day, even when I feel like there’s nothing to say, or when my chest is so heavy I can barely lift a pen.

You always told me that words are a form of release — that even when I can’t find answers, writing helps me breathe. And it’s true. Every page I write to you makes me feel like you’re still listening, like I’m not alone in this big, cold world.

I remembered something else today.

Do you recall that wooden box you gave me on my ninth birthday? The one you told me to keep my “small treasures” in? I found it at the back of my wardrobe today while clearing out some old school notes. Inside it were marbles, a broken wristwatch, a feather from the parrot we saw on that road trip to Enugu, and your old tie clip. I held it for a long time. I could almost smell your cologne on it — the musky scent that used to fill the house when you came back from work.

I put the box under my pillow now. It’s silly, I know. But it makes me feel close to you.

After dinner, Mum said something that stuck with me. She looked at me, smiled softly, and said, “You’re starting to look like your father.” Her eyes got glassy after she said it. I didn’t know whether to feel proud or sad.

I want to be like you, Dad. Brave. Gentle. Full of laughter. You made everything feel possible. Right now, everything just feels... paused.

I wish you were here to guide me through high school, to tell me how to talk to girls without sounding like a complete i***t, or how to handle the pressure that sits on my chest every exam season.

You know, I used to think grief was a moment. A single moment of crying at the funeral. But it’s not. It’s a thousand small moments. Like walking past your old slippers at the back door. Like hearing your favorite radio jingle and forgetting for a second that you're not around to sing along.

I’m learning to live with it. Some days are better than others. Today... wasn’t one of them.

But I’m still here.

And I’ll keep writing.

Because maybe these letters are not just for you. Maybe they’re also for me.

With all my heart,

—Ayo

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