Though I called him “old dad” instead of father, in front of me he called himself the old dad. Despite his comparing me to animals like pigs, asses and dogs, he didn't mind if he was an animal’s parent.

We used to chat every time we were together in the bathroom, where he would be enthusiastically teaching me a great deal of knowledge about society, while the only thing that I had actually learned was the way to make more soap bubbles.

My old dad was athletic—he was always stronger than me, and could have been stronger than me for many more years. No one had ever replaced him when I was in need of a partner to play ping pong or badminton, yet there were times when he felt uninterested to partner me, and scolded me by saying, “Have more friends, not me, to play with you!” It was not until the final day, when as many as the world of his friends gathered around him, that was proved the meaning of his scold, and how I was abased before his successful life.

The last few days to accompany him was suffocating, especially the seconds to see and avoid seeing him. I had observed with fear that he was even less conscious than an infant; I had observed that his mouth was half open, eyes seeing with no recognition; I had observed that he was telling whatever  incoherently, and breathing without physical strength. It was like the last second that I saw him when I yelled against him the “Old Dad!”, but he didn't give a hint of response.