Will
Before my father died, on the day of his hospitalization, he held my hand tightly. Deep in my heart I could feel the concern. The weight of my father's hand that day was etched into my memory. It must be his last strength. It would be his will to entrust his last hope. His heavy hand would be forwarding everything and his last words he wanted to say to me.
The cares, worries, and last orders for those he loved so much but had to leave.
On his last day, he was constantly staring straigh at me like he wanted to remember me even in his next life, his precious daughter, who he trusted the most.
The weight of his hand, its roughness and its last warmth. These things are stuck in my mind.
It's been a year since the weight of that hand that I took and held. I don't know if I can do as well as my father used to do things to us. I can only give my promise with myself to do my best in his place.