Dear “Kenny” . . . as you asked me to call you since I could speak. Not dad, no. Because you wanted me to know you were as much a friend as a father.

That’s one of the reasons that today, the two-year anniversary of your passing, is harder than I ever thought it would be. Because for the last 24 months, it felt like two of the closest people in my life were gone.

I know, I know. You’re not gone. And you never will be. I’ll never forget when you and my mother divorced and you told me we would always be together. Always. “We might not be in the same house or in the same state or even on the same continent, Kenneth, but anywhere we go in our lives, we are connected. Always.” And that we are. Because I can hear your support and encouragement with everything I do.

I do want to say I’m sorry. I’m sorry that we never got to go to The Met. I’m sorry that this damn pandemic didn’t allow me to hold your hand when you finally left us on that Easter morning. I’m sorry that it has not been safe for me to travel to your childhood home in India and to spread your ashes in the Ganges as you told me you wanted. I know you understand. You always did. But know that as soon as I can, I will lay your spirit to rest in those waters, so that you may join your mother, and your young brother, and be at peace in the land you left so long ago.

And yes, yes, I know what you’re going to ask. And I will. I promise. I said, I promise! (Now, I know where I get my stubborn side.) And when I do it, I will owe it ALL to you.

Rest, my father and my friend. Thank you for what you did for me while you were here, and what I know you are doing for me, for your granddaughter (your “genetic code” as you said), and for my whole family, from high above us all.

Love,

Kenneth Anjum Hasija

In remembrance of Dr. Kenny Dipchand Hasija 10/13/29 – 4/12/20