There's always that window opened

There's always that window opened when a typhoon strikes—behind it, a sanctum where my father and I reside forever, suspended in time like light caught in rain.

Sweetest moment with Dad

When that window opens, I scream. With joy. With distress. Silently.

Permission to open that window is all mine.

It is one of those sweet memories—Dad smiling beside me, allowing the window to breathe, letting us feel the wind tunnel roar between inner city buildings. We watched plastic bags pirouette through the sky, dancing with the storm's fury. We screamed out to nature, wild and free, two souls unafraid at the edge of chaos.

When that window shuts, a contrasting silence falls—thick and tender, like a lullaby after thunder. A deep sense of safety wraps around us, soft as the echo of his presence.

So it is alright, in the midst of chaos, to open that window and scream, facing head-on the treachery that howls outside. Do know that when you shut it down, the contrasting safety is always there—a sanctuary held by love, by memory, by the ones who once smiled beside you.

The storm passes. The window closes. But the sanctum remains—an eternal room where fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, lovers and dreamers reside, forever sheltered, forever free.