In the name of my father, Eric Cooray

Today, my father would have celebrated his 88th birthday. He departed this world just two months after turning 87. Many would say ‘he lived a long life, a good life,’ and I would of course agree. That, nevertheless, is no consolation. Not to those who were close who he left behind.

Not a day passes when I am reminded of what an exemplary human being he was and how much he has taught me, not so much through instruction but example. He was a devoted father, a loving husband, and a cherished grandfather. A devout Catholic, he attended church almost daily. Indeed, he found strength and solace in his faith, conducting his life as any God-fearing person would. He was, simply, beyond reproach.

My father, P. John Eric Reginald Cooray, was a man of immense patience, deliberate and selective in all he did. Unlike me, he was always impeccably dressed, a quiet testament to his respect for himself and others.

He never spoke ill of others but chose instead to distance himself from those he did not favour. Honesty was his expectation, loyalty, his highest virtue.

Today, as I remember him on his birthday, fondly as always, I cannot but reflect on the relationship between parents and children. Children never truly ‘grow up’ in the eyes of parents while children often take parents for granted. Until they are no more. It is when a parent is gone that we realise that all we have left are memories of shared times, kindness, understanding, unbelievable patience and almost a divine readiness to forgive. We realise also that they are the only people who love us more than they love themselves. No matter how busy life becomes, no matter how heavy their burdens, they never neglect us. These memories and realisations lessen but do not cure our grief completely.

My father is no more. The loss cannot be described. The sorrow is inexpressible. His absence, just like the long years of his presence, continues to shape my life, my every single day, the decisions I make, the words I speak.

This is why, in the name of my father, everything he was and everything he meant to me compels me to suggest in all humility and with much tenderness that the least one can do by way of appreciating is to be there for one’s parents when time confers upon them infirmity and ailment. We know that life is short and often unpredictable. We know, too often only in hindsight, that life is too precious to waste on pettiness and bitterness. And we know that it is the elderly who are most conscious of the fact that time is short and running out. A moment of presence, concern, empathy, kindness and support could give them much joy. It is not unaffordable and yet, somehow, we seem to find reasons to postpone. Then it is too late. Or could be. We are left with regrets.

Some of us still have our parents, but some do not. If you are still fortunate to have both parents or at least one, I urge you to give them the hours that can be easily created if you put your mind to it. And if you are, unfortunately, orphaned even when middle-aged or older, remember that there are old people around us. It’s someone’s mother, someone’s father. You lose nothing by giving them a smile or a kind word. You lose nothing by offering a helping hand. The simple rule of thumb is this: treat your parents as you would wish your own children to treat you when you reach the age of infirmity.

Today, as I remember my father, my soul is enriched with love, affection, and pride. I like to think that he would endorse everything I have written here. I cannot wish him on his birthday. I cannot tell him how much I admire him or how appreciative I am of everything he’s done in his life including the way he raised us and took care of his wife. That time is gone. I miss him.