People kept telling me it’s okay, I don’t have a fault at what happened, that I did what was required of me, that Baba is finally free of his illnesses. I couldn’t let go of the guilt and blame even when everyone including his son told me that it’s not my problem anymore; that I shouldn’t cry anymore. So for one last time yesterday I went back to his home and the beach he was so fond of. I wished to walk him in early morning sunlight but I never got to do that, nor did he live long enough to reach Winter so we could freely roam outside on times he wanted to go out. Shame for these regrets. . . When I went back to his room it was pitch dark and I couldn’t get myself to enter. I waited for his sitter and we both entered and I saw everything stripped. His bed was bare to its metal core, his shelves and cabinets empty of his belongings. I saw his wheelchair and wheeled it one last time, his last moment of sitting stuck in it when he wanted to stand and walk was over. Now he could go and roam the beach on his own. I’d like to believe he’s just out there enjoying what he’s been deprived of, what I thought he could do in five months time. Walking and running. He used to do those a lot, enjoying every bang of doors forcibly closed as he went from one place to another. I hope he’s still smiling and laughing at everything that comes his way, and more than anything, I hope he’s at peace.