My father's obsession with aesthetics contrasted sharply with his blindness, compelling him to create a meticulously curated space in our New York apartment, reminiscent of the British Raj.
The Statesman, an incongruously modern cube for my father's ashes, struck me as a poignant symbol of absence in an apartment filled with cherished artifacts from his past.
His memorized phone numbers offered a glimpse into his meticulous routine, while his conversations with auction houses demonstrated a passionate pursuit of beauty and history.
We carefully arranged each room to perfection, yet the absence of my father remained palpable, as if he might appear in the next room with his familiar warmth.
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