father’s day has always been a special occasion, a day dedicated to celebrating the man who taught me how to ride a bike, play soccer, and, most importantly, the art of the sunday farmer’s market. since my baba passed away, this day has taken on a bittersweet tone, filled with cherished memories and an undeniable sense of loss.

every sunday, like clockwork, my baba and i would head to the farmer’s market. it was our little ritual, a sacred tradition that involved a lot of laughter, a bit of haggling, and always, always, the search for the freshest produce. baba had a knack for picking the ripest tomatoes and the juiciest peaches. he’d squeeze and sniff his way through stalls, offering me a running commentary on the quality of each vendor’s offerings.

“see this apple? it’s got character,” he’d say with a twinkle in his eye, holding up a slightly misshapen fruit. “just like me!”

we’d often end up with more than we could carry, our bags overflowing with colorful vegetables, fragrant herbs, and occasionally, some quirky knick-knack that baba couldn’t resist. and every week, without fail, he’d buy me a bunch of flowers. he’d hand them to me with a smile, saying, “because you’re my flower.” but the best part of those mornings was the time spent together, the shared jokes, and the simple joy of each other’s company.

baba also taught me to love stories and books. whether it was the way he described each vendor at the market, weaving tales about their lives and their produce, or the bedtime stories he told me every night, he instilled in me a deep appreciation for storytelling. during his first long hospital stay, i used to sit at his bedside and read to him, just as he did with me when i was younger. it’s no surprise that this love for stories contributed to me becoming a writer. every story i write, every character i create, has a bit of baba’s influence in it.

today, i ventured to the farmer’s market alone. it was a decision made with a mix of apprehension and determination, a way to honor our tradition and feel close to him. walking through the familiar aisles, i could almost hear his voice, pointing out the best deals and cracking jokes about the oddly shaped carrots.

i won’t lie. it was hard. every corner, every stall seemed to hold a memory of him. i found myself lingering at the tomato stand, squeezing them as he used to do, trying to channel his expertise. a vendor, noticing my indecision, asked if i needed help. “just trying to find one with character,” i said, smiling through a wave of nostalgia.

in a moment of spontaneous tribute, i bought a slightly misshapen apple. it wasn’t the best one there, but it felt right. i could almost hear baba’s approving chuckle, see his amused grin.

as i continued to wander, i realized something beautiful amidst the sadness. though baba isn’t physically with me, his presence is still very much alive in these small rituals, in the way i navigate the market, and in the joy i find in simple things. i even found myself haggling over prices, a skill baba taught me well. the vendors might have been surprised at my persistence, but i think baba would have been proud.

father’s day will always be a little tough, but it’s also a day that reminds me of the bond we shared, the lessons he taught me, and the laughter we enjoyed. today, the market was a blend of tears and smiles, of missing him deeply and feeling incredibly grateful for the memories.

so here’s to you, baba. thanks for the laughs, the love, and the life lessons. i’ll keep squeezing the tomatoes, picking the quirky apples, and negotiating those prices, keeping your spirit alive in the best way i know how. and who knows, maybe one day, i’ll even pass these skills on to the next generation. and i’ll always remember the soccer tips, especially when i’m out playing, because just like those apples, you taught me that sometimes it’s the imperfections that make things perfect.

as i walked from the market, bags in hand and heart a little lighter, i realized that every step i take, every deal i make, every story i write, and every goal i score carries a piece of him with me. i even picked up a bunch of flowers for myself today, just as baba would have done.

happy father’s day, baba. you’re always in my heart and my footsteps. and as i arranged the flowers in a vase at home, their fragrance filling the room, i knew he was right there with me, in every petal, every memory, and every story i tell.