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Music became a part of me at a young age.

When I was 3, I would usually join my dad in choir practice (he used to sing in the choir before joining the army). I usually enjoyed those trips going to choir practice. My dad would usually sit me in a chair at the front row of the auditorium of the church while my dad practiced with the other adults. He had a wonderful voice and I loved listening to him (as well as everyone else). The other choir members thought I would become a wonderful singer when I grew up because my dad was absolutely good in singing.

A year after, when I was four years old, my dad joined the army.

I told him I wanted to have a very unique musical instrument because I was interested in music. My dad agreed, and for Christmas, he bought me a genuine fife from Nova Scotia, Canada.

When I asked him how Nova Scotia was like, he told me it was a very beautiful place. He said Nova Scotia was very scenic and had a lot of excellent views of the ocean. At 4 years old, I wished I went with my dad on his excursion trips to Canada and Europe. I had that overwhelming feeling to ask him, but when I finally had the guts to tell him, he was away from home, fighting.

I remember asking my dad a week before my seventh birthday (which was on Feb. 2) if he could get me a flute for a birthday present.

I haven’t actually recalled why I wanted a flute but according to what my mom told me, I was reading a lot about fifes and I came upon this piece of information that stated some people would learn how to play the flute after learning how to play the fife. So I probably thought at that time that I just had to learn how to play the flute (well, I still have that passion to play the flute).

You might have guessed what he said in response, “No.”, but he promised to get me one that Christmas.

Unfortunately, he never gave me the flute.

That summer, four months after my birthday, my dad left to--- you might have guessed – go overseas to fight.

I didn’t know this would be very different, so I just said goodbye to him; I didn’t cry, I didn’t try to force him not to leave, I just said goodbye to him; not knowing this would be my last goodbye to him.

Four months later, on October, a soldier came to our apartment and told my mom my father was dead.

He went on and explained that he was riding with his fellow soldiers in a car when a bomb exploded, tearing the car into pieces as if it was just a piece of delicate tissue. They only found his burnt remains and cremated him. After that, his ashes were scattered in the Indian Ocean.

I was so devastated. I felt like I couldn’t live life anymore. My mom only worked as a waitress in a diner and she couldn’t possibly earn that enough for both of us… I also missed my dad so much. I missed the touch of his comforting hands, the warm smile on his handsome features, and the way he would cuddle me to bed when I was a kid. He was a kind-hearted and loving father and he didn’t deserve to die in a horrible way.

I cried the whole time in his funeral ceremony. I felt he didn’t deserve to die; he was too young to die. All of dad’s relatives, church friends, army associates, and even former classmates came to his funeral. Mom and I, as well as his other relatives and friends said something to the congregation about my dad: his outgoingness, his good sense of humor, his wonderful voice, the non-judgmental character that lay within him, and many more. I was so chocked up with emotion that the only thing I could say was that he was a good father and that I loved him so much.

Why did he have to die? The question still runs through my head and remains unanswered up to now. Why him? Why did he have to die in a horrible way? Why? Why? Why?