Day 3: Letter To Heaven
974 Words
*Dear Dad,*
It’s been three days since I started writing you these letters. Maybe I should say, since I started talking to you again… in this way. I know you're not here to physically read them, but somehow, I feel closer to you when I do. And right now, I really, really need that closeness.
Today at school felt like walking underwater. Everything around me moved—people laughing, talking, teachers lecturing—but I felt stuck in place, like a piece of driftwood in the tide. I tried to focus in class, but every word felt muffled. My mind wandered back to you.
During Literature, we were asked to write a short essay about “our hero.” Some kids wrote about footballers, celebrities, or even anime characters. I sat there staring at my paper. My hands shook a little. All I could think about was you, Dad.
You were my hero. Still are.
But I couldn’t write about you—not out loud. I didn’t want to cry in front of the whole class again. That happened last term when Mr. Danjuma asked who I was named after, and I said, “My father,” and my voice broke. The class was silent. Awkward. Even he didn’t know what to say. I hate being the “boy whose dad died.” That label sticks like chewing gum under a school desk.
Anyway, after school, I walked home instead of taking the usual okada. I needed time. Space. The wind was gentle. The sky had that golden tint you always called “story sky,” remember? You used to say when the clouds looked painted with orange and blue, “That’s when the world is telling stories.” I wish I could hear yours.
At home, Mom was busy in the kitchen. I could smell egusi soup. She didn’t say much when I entered. Just gave me that tired look. It’s like she’s living in slow motion too. We used to talk more—about you, about life. Now, it’s like she’s afraid words might break her. I get it.
I peeked into Tayo’s room—she was lying on her bed, staring at her phone screen, earbuds in. She saw me, smiled faintly, then looked away. That’s our new routine. Silent check-ins. I worry about her too, Dad. She used to be so full of laughter. Now she barely speaks. It’s like grief put our whole house on mute.
I went to my room and opened your old wooden box. The one you kept under your bed, remember? The one Mom didn’t even want to touch after you passed. Inside were your sketches, your old pocket watch, the broken glasses you refused to replace, and the journal you never let anyone read. I didn’t open the journal… not yet. I’m not ready.
But I held your watch in my palm for a long time. It doesn’t tick anymore, but it still feels like it holds time in some way—our time. Your presence. I don’t know. Maybe I’m just being sentimental.
Sometimes, I talk to the air like you’re sitting in your old chair. I imagine you adjusting your reading glasses and saying, “Speak, my boy. What troubles you today?” And then I pour it all out.
That’s what these letters have become. A mirror. A therapy session. A way to scream without sound.
The truth is, Dad, I’m scared. Not of ghosts or monsters, but of forgetting.
Forgetting your laugh.
Your voice when you called me “champ.”
The way you’d ruffle my hair before bed, even when I pretended to be too old for it.
They say memories fade. I don’t want yours to.
Last night, I dreamt of you. We were sitting on the veranda, just like old times. You were sipping kunu and humming that old Fela song. You looked peaceful. You smiled and said, “Write it all down. All of it.”
I woke up crying. I wish dreams could last longer. I wish they didn’t have to end.
Sometimes, I blame myself. Maybe if I hadn’t asked you to come with us that day. Maybe if I’d just stayed quiet, you wouldn’t have been in the car. Maybe the accident wouldn’t have happened. Maybe you’d still be here. I know it’s not my fault—not really—but guilt doesn’t care about logic.
Mom says you’d want me to live fully. To make you proud. But how do I do that when every part of me feels cracked?
I tried praying again today. Not long. Just a whisper. I don’t even know if I believe anymore. But I whispered your name into the night and hoped somehow, you’d hear it. Is that prayer?
Anyway, tomorrow I have a math test. I didn’t study. I don’t even care. That’s not like me, is it? You always said I had “the head of a scientist and the heart of a poet.” Maybe the poet is taking over now.
I wish you were here to help me through this. To sit with me at the dining table with your long-winded explanations and silly examples. Math made sense when you explained it. Life made sense when you were around.
I miss our long walks.
I miss how you always noticed when something was off, even when I tried to hide it.
I miss how you believed in me—even when I didn’t believe in myself.
I miss… you.
I should end this letter now. It’s getting late, and Mom might come in to check if I’m asleep. She worries. But I’ll write again tomorrow. I promised myself I’d do this every day, and I will. For 365 days. For you. For me.
Goodnight, Dad.
I love you.
Your son,
*Ayo*
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- Writer
