"He died." I never wanted to say these words but they flowed out as if nothing happened. As if his life didn't mean a thing. I was trying to numb myself for it; I've never been to a funeral prior to this, I didn't understand the procedures, much less what to feel.

To be fair, I had enough preparation. I lost him to old age — it was evident from his last days. The moment his health deteriorated in Singapore, we braced ourselves for the worse. And when he choose to return to his home, Mommy made frequent trips to Malaysia, hoping to be there for him every second she could while he was alive. Eventually, he passed away peacefully in his sleep.

Death itself is painful. Death is the loss of someone, forever. Death, to me, represents regrets of the living because every mourning person laments that s/he should have spent more time while s/he could. Every single funeral, every damn time.