I was three when my father passed away, and aside from that, I don't remember much of him. At least, that's what my mother thinks. In her defense, I do pretend to have that repressed memory thing going on, and well, really no one ever does remember much from when they were three.
I do, though, more than I probably should, even. Like that stupid picture that he carried around with him all the time, fawning over me to everyone, of course you can't talk about Maes Hughes without bringing up how he would tell you about his daughter whether you wanted to hear it or not, but there was so much more to him as a father.
One of the most prominent things about him was the cologne that he wore. Although he wore it only for special occasions, I can pinpoint that scent from miles away. The spicy yet mellow aroma reminds me of when I was young and unable to sleep; whenever he wasn't off doing something-or-other for the military, he would insist upon being the one to lull me back into dreamland. Had I known at that point what was to come, if I had even slightly comprehended the severity of losing a parent, I would have stayed up later, maybe even pretended that I couldn't sleep. From this thought sprouts the sound of his voice, which I can hear in my head even now, soothing me to sleep when thoughts of monsters that I've spent my whole life running from threaten to claw at me from the dark corners of my room.
Even after that I recall how he would try to cook dinner on occasion, either forgetting or not caring that that was my mother's forte, not his. He would usually burn something, or even worse, set something on fire; however, there was a rare time or two where he had actually managed to produce something edible. Cleaning was a job that often fell to my mother as well, but he would do that when she was upset about something, which reminds me that she stopped doing the dishes for nearly a month after his funeral. Something tells me that she wanted him to come home nearly as much as I did.
I recollect old memories of his friends-people he brought into my life that are still a part of me today. There is no time that I can remember where I didn't feel the presence of Roy and Riza, who were not frequent visitors until after my father's passing, as well as Winry and the Elrics, who have been an almost-impossible-to-shake figures since my birth. Once again I am thankful for my dad as I wonder briefly of a life without Mr. and Mrs. Stoic and the two boys who may as well be my siblings at this point, then decide that it would be a bit too bleak for my tastes.
He may be dead, but that doesn't mean that he's gone. My father's memory lives on in the hearts of every life that he touched, and those lives are many. I promise myself that every time my mind threatens to erase every thought I have of him, I will pull out the picture that I keep in my purse and remind myself of the only man I've ever truly loved.