Waves

When I was little, the monsoon in Bombay was stuff of legend. And in a good way. ... While it poured outside, poured with the strength of a hundred stampeding elephants, while the world scurried indoors, my father took us to the beach. Sometimes, me, sometimes my brother and I, and sometimes, this whole gang of cousins. In the pouring rain.
We would stand in the water, upto our knees, stomach, chests, as he deemed safe, holding hands tight, firm against the thundering waves, slippers floating off, laughing so much that our sides hurt as wave after wave crashed at us, while the rain came down still.
He died so many years ago, now the pain is just a dull ache, and now memories are happy. And for all of us, the ones who've had to say bye too soon, here's the thing, he will live on through you.
And quite a life it will be, make sure of that.
After all,you are your father’s daughter.
Happy Father’s Day.