My dad is the Grim Reaper

Since my dad was young, he had an insatiable passion for cinema—not merely attending movie theaters but also frequenting video rental shops. The term "video tape" might sound alien to many of today's youth, yet I grew up accompanying him to rent videos, and thus watching movies remains one of my greatest pleasures.

After the era of video tapes came DVDs. In my childhood, numerous small rental shops dotted the streets, where new releases were eagerly sought. Icons such as Leonardo, Brad Pitt, Will Smith, and Johnny Depp graced our screens.

In retrospect, I was but a seven- or eight-year-old child, spending one day marveling at Leonardo and the next at Brad Pitt. I cherished those moments with my dad, listening as he elucidated the plots before my eyes.

Because my dad adored Hong Kong action films, I spent my early years immersed in the movies of Bruce Lee and Jackie Chan. Gradually, I came to adore their films myself, watching them repeatedly—indeed, some films I viewed dozens of times without ever tiring. Classics like "Enter the Dragon," "The Way of the Dragon," and "Police Story" have become etched in my memory through countless viewings.

Yet time has transformed all things; Bruce Lee is gone, and although Jackie Chan continues to release films annually, neither his martial prowess nor the overall quality of his work can now compare to his prime. I vividly recall when Jackie Chan's new film, "The Duel in London," premiered—my dad and I bought tickets the very day. Although Chan delivered what might be considered his finest performance, one cannot help but acknowledge that even legendary heroes grow old.

My dad and Jackie Chan were contemporaries. While my dad lamented the gradual decline in Chan's film quality, he would always remark that if he were in Chan's place, he might struggle even to perform a simple somersault. Yet Jackie Chan perseveres on the silver screen with undiminished vigor—indeed, his spirit and tenacity alone are to support him.

I had always believed that, like Chan, my dad would remain sprightly and forever by my side. But just before the New Year, he passed away so suddenly—a man whose robust health had never once betrayed a hint of frailty. Before his departure, he entrusted me with a peculiar errand; after attending to his final rites and a few days of "harvesting" work, I have finally found a moment to rest.

I turned on my computer and found an old film online—one of my all-time favorites, Jackie Chan's "Police Story." To me, it is among his most quintessential works. I recall watching it while still in school, amused by its whimsical plot and captivating duets of combat; in hindsight, the film boasts a plethora of cameo appearances and every fight sequence is a masterpiece. I once rented it and, for over a week, could not bear to return it—watching it daily until I nearly memorized every line.

Yet, as soon as I began watching, my vision blurred and, in a moment, I was confronted by the reality that it had been thirteen days since my dad's passing. I recalled the last time we watched this film together, sharing beers as the scenes unfolded...

Now, everything has changed. The film remains the same—the elegance of Chan's movements and the humor of the storyline unaltered. But who, after the film ends, will join me for a drink?

It is only in growing up that one realizes how profoundly elusive a dad's love can be. My dad, like many, never explicitly expressed his affection. In my early years, when my mom was still alive, any misstep on my part was met with his firm hand while my mom shielded me. For a time, I harbored resentment, feeling that he loved me only enough to discipline me. Yet after my mom passed, my dad seemed to age overnight; within less than a year, his hair turned mostly white. He never spoke of her again nor did we reminisce together, though I sensed that without her, a part of his very soul had faded—visible in his once-bright eyes, now dull and vacant.

After my mom's departure, he never struck or scolded me again. He would simply say that now that I was grown, I should have my own ideas and make my own arrangements. Gradually, the two of us began to share common topics, and I came to appreciate the subtle, unspoken love he harbored for me.

In that moment, memories played before my eyes like a film reel: my dad teaching me to ride a bicycle, to play basketball, to fish—as if these moments had occurred just yesterday. Tears streamed uncontrollably, and despite my efforts to stifle them by rubbing my eyes vigorously, the memories persisted.

I turned around and looked around the empty room. It seemed that every corner had traces of my dad. At the end of the bed, he had carefully sorted out the clothes and socks I had thrown around; on the sofa, he sat in front of his phone, sharing the latest interesting things; in the kitchen, he was busy for a while, but shouted at the door: "You bastard, dinner is ready!"

I could not endure the flood of recollections any longer. For these past days, I had strived to keep myself incessantly occupied—even if it meant sleeping whenever possible—fearing that the memories might surge forth like an overwhelming torrent. Deep down, I knew I could never escape them. Whether at my dad's funeral or when Mark and the others came to console me, I never broached the subject. I feigned composure, unwilling to burden them, knowing full well that no one could truly ease or replace this loss. The emotion was like a breached dam: once a small crack appeared, it inevitably burst forth uncontrollably.

Dad, how I long for you. Why did you depart so suddenly? Not long ago, we would argue and defy each other, and now, I am filled with regret.

I should have learned to cherish every moment together long ago. Now, though I understand, what use is it? Time cannot be rewound. All that remains is regret. I went to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face, then retrieved two bottles of beer from the refrigerator—after all these years, I have never enjoyed drinking alone;Guess it's become our thing – Dad and I each having our own bottle. As I closed the fridge, it struck me that I had even taken his beer—and yet, he was no longer here.

Settling on the sofa, I opened both bottles as before, switched the TV to the NBA—my dad's favorite—and raised one bottle to clink lightly against the other. "Cheers, Dad!" I murmured.

I cannot recall how many bottles I eventually consumed, yet I know I never truly became intoxicated. In truth, I wished never to be fully conscious, for in drunken stupor the memories would be less sharp. Yet, inexplicably, the more I drank, the more lucid I became, as long-forgotten memories gradually resurfaced.

My vision grew dim, and after fumbling about on the table, I found a cigarette and a lighter. I retrieved a cigarette from the pack and placed it between my lips. Just as I was about to light it, I saw my dad seated before me, glaring: "Still smoking? When will you quit?"

Startled, I hastily removed the cigarette and flung it to the floor. "Dad, rest assured—I'll quit from now on…"

It was then I realized that my dad was not truly there; only my solitary shadow remained.

"Dad, I'm smoking again! Come out—scold me if you must, even beat me if you like. I so desperately miss that feeling!"

I lost track of time as I drank, and eventually I set the bottle upon the bedside table and collapsed onto the bed. Though my mind remained awake, I yearned for sleep to bring solace to my aching heart.

That night, I dreamed incessantly—not only of my dad but also of my mom. In my dreams, they strolled hand in hand under the moonlight, admired blossoms by a lake, and cooked together. In the end, our family sat together, dining and conversing, with my dad occasionally gazing at me, his face graced by that long-missed smile. I had awaited that vision for far too long.