Homemade Breathing

Homemade Breathing

"Have you seen that filter that makes

photographs come to life for a second?

I uploaded a photo of my father and cried.

That smile was almost his."

From the TikTok comments, 2023

Tears well up in my eyes, and the wind gently wipes them away from my face.

Standing at Dover's iconic white cliffs, I watch calm waves lazily dance below. The sea is a serene expanse of blue, separated by the thin line of land from the sky on the distant horizon—another delicate line between sea and shore created by the foam, as white as the chalk. A gentle breeze carries the salty scent.  

It's time to return home, yet I find myself reluctant to leave the seaside. Memories of my father always visit me here, particularly the fond recollection of how he would stop me from crying as a little girl by softly blowing on my face. And if that didn't work, he would blow harder, lifting my fringe off my eyes and eliciting laughter from both of us. It has been years since my father passed away, but the ache of missing him still lingers deep within me.

As my son Damien and I pack our belongings to return home, he asks, "Tell me about Grandpa again."

My son is a slender teen with delicate features and wears glasses that frame his beautiful eyes. Behind those glasses lies a world of curiosity and creativity, a mind eager to explore and learn. His black hair falls effortlessly, adding to his boyish charm. Despite his slight frame, there's a quiet strength in his demeanour, a resilience beyond his years. He is old enough to sense my melancholy and has recently become eager to hear stories of his grandfather. And I once again talk about my father’s work, his achievements as a physicist, his love for classic black-and-white films with soulful songs, and his numerous talents. He taught me to draw and introduced me to the wonders of the night sky, taught me about constellations and solar storms, and shared his favourite literature beyond the school curriculum. His influence on me was profound, shaping my principles and values. I feel better recalling our good times, especially Dad's penchant for singing and reciting passages from his beloved books. Despite his absence, my father's voice is preserved through the audio recordings Damien is so good at making.

Suddenly, Damien suggests that he can recreate the sensation of feeling my father's breath on my face again. At first, I am taken aback, even a little angry at the thought of him playing with my emotions in such a delicate matter. My disbelief in the afterlife and spirit visits is rooted in rational scepticism I also inherited from Dad. The idea of spirits returning to communicate seems implausible, lacking empirical support. While respecting others' beliefs, I struggle to reconcile the concept with my understanding of the world. Life's mysteries are best explored through reason rather than supernatural interpretations.

y son stops me right there, "No, Mother, I am not talking about all that mystical rubbish. I can demonstrate it and explain it to you scientifically."

Still sceptical, I brush off his idea, telling him to leave me be.

Arriving at my new two-bedroom house, we are greeted by a renovated bungalow in a tranquil setting. The charm of its old front garden remains untouched, a testament to its history and character.

After dinner, Damien passes me his new mobile phone. It is as large as my palm, very flat and light, unlike my old "brick", as I call my old phone. I have had it for years, and it still works. It serves me well without cameras and navigation. I have never been fond of fancy gadgets. However, Damien's enthusiasm for progress and innovation is undeniable, and he has been saving up for months to buy this newest device.

With a cunning grin, he goes to his room, closes the door, and calls his new phone from my old one. I answer and hear him saying, "Don't worry, Mum. Tap the icon that looks like a lady's old bonnet and put the phone close to your cheek. Focus carefully on the loudspeaker. I will do the talking."

I even close my eyes, following his instructions and lower myself to the chair. I must admit that I can feel something on my face so faint that I would never have noticed if he hadn't asked me. Like some strange and ghostly kiss on my lips, I can feel the subtle air movement.

Damien’s words are hardly reaching me, "It is simple. Sound is an energy of the vibrating particles pushed by the air to our ears. The phone's speaker vibrates, and so do the air molecules. This breath-like sensation is produced by the sound emanating from the phone. We learned about these things in school a while back. Our teacher just had much bigger speakers and a handful of rice grains."

Clever boy! Just like his Grandpa used to be. He actually looks a lot like him, too, when he smiles so mischievously.

"Now give me a minute and check this out!" he adds.

My thoughts take me back a few years. On the day of my father's cremation, initially, I was not too fond of the smell of burning. But it didn't last. Instead, I began to associate it with the return of carbon, the central element of organic life, to the universe, where it could contribute to creating new life.

I am still holding Damien's mobile phone by my ear when he must have turned his computer on and played Dad's singing the "My Way" song. As he moves his telephone receiver closer to the record player, I hear that song in my ear and feel that breath-like sensation on my lips. This time, it is generated by his voice.

What a strange sensation! My father's presence becomes tangibly close, his laughter echoing in the breeze from the phone speaker. Damien's ingenious demonstration serves as a bittersweet reminder of the love and connection that transcends time and space. I cannot help but embrace a sense of solace, knowing that my father will always be with me, carried on the memorable records and the gentle wind caress.

With my eyes closed, I start wiping when a strong air blow forces me to open them again. Damien is bending in front of me, smiling. He blows again, drying off my tears, and we both laugh.