"In his final days, I recall my father reclining on a plush black couch. His expressionless face was attached to a gas mask and oxygen tank. It still brings me to tears that the father I loved - the man who walked ten blocks every Sunday to Parisi's Bakery to buy his little girl strawberry-filled bread cookies - was losing his battle with lung cancer.

Even as his health started to deteriorate, my father proved himself to be a hero. Like a devout Muslim, he read his favorite Koran passages and prayed five times daily until the eleventh hour. Oblivious to his weakening condition, I sat by his side, asking questions about everything like spelling a word, the question to a Jeopardy answer, and what a fact means. Hoarse and out of breath, my father always gave me an answer. He was aware that this moment might be the last time we would have together. But I believed that he would pull through cancer and be around forever. After all, real heroes never die, right?

While difficult to be fully expressed in words, my father strived to be a good parent to my brothers and me. He made sure we got to school on time, taught us how to save for the future, and encouraged us to value our Muslim beliefs. Still, more importantly, he made us earn his approval. On those rare occasions, when I could get him to share a proud smile for something that I achieved, I felt like my world was complete. For example, my father walked with my brothers and me to Rainey Park on Saturdays, where he challenged us to a relay race. Of course, he always won. But during each race, he yelled at me to run faster, pull through the pain gushing through my legs, and pump harder and harder. After following his advice, on one particular Saturday afternoon, I beat him! And when I waited for his expression, his grave eyes finally gave me the approval I yearned for. On the way home, he stopped at the store to buy me red Baby Bottle Pop candy. It was the perfect day!"

Student Writer