Dad
The first time I saw him, we were hanging out at their place in PMA, checking out Kigao's commissioned work - 1996 or 1995, if Alzheimer's has not gotten the better of me. He was calling someone. It was then that we discovered Kigao's real name. :D
The second time I saw Dad was the first time I actually met him (the first time didn't count as I still don't think he saw us). The house in PMA was always open - literally. I was already lost inside, halfway through the living room. The sight of him stopped me in my tracks. His low voice saying "Yes, my child? Who are you looking for?" was like a gun cocking towards an intruder (me!), even if he had infused a friendly tone in his voice. After mumbling something about coming to visit his eldest son who was sick at that time, he looked at me from head to toe and back. Then he "smirked". I, in my short dress, then 27 years old, struggled not to faint.
Later I realized that he really looks at people that way. And I came to love that "smirk" and even have my own personal interpretations of it. It's a smile, in a quirky way; it's his way of smiling, liking or approving something without giving too much away; his way of being cute; or he is forcing himself to smile at you because he feels that you need to be acknowledged. It can be all of the above and more. I never knew for sure even as I later found the "smirks" adorable.
We used to drink together when we were all healthier and younger. Back then, we were living with them, and his grandchild from us was still just Ilaw in her baby years. He would bring out his stash of local brandy to share.
I remember one night, he asked us about certain decisions his son and I have made that were not really of the conventional sort. His son and I have been together for a couple of years and until then, he never asked or questioned anything that we did (well, not that I know of). That night, warmed by the brandy from the cool Baguio air, we welcomed his questions and he welcomed our answers. We talked and talked and talked, and truly got to know each other.
Maybe he did not fully understand, but he respected those decisions. And accepted me. There was never any judgment. And for that, Dad, thank you.
You have lived a full life. You are loved. And we miss you.
Dad passed away October 22, 2012.
This post was originally written in October and uploaded November 25, 2012.
Updated today October 23, 2013, his one-year death anniversary.
"I am an X in an indeterminate equation. And that X is the rock upon which I stand." - Mario Puzo
The second time I saw Dad was the first time I actually met him (the first time didn't count as I still don't think he saw us). The house in PMA was always open - literally. I was already lost inside, halfway through the living room. The sight of him stopped me in my tracks. His low voice saying "Yes, my child? Who are you looking for?" was like a gun cocking towards an intruder (me!), even if he had infused a friendly tone in his voice. After mumbling something about coming to visit his eldest son who was sick at that time, he looked at me from head to toe and back. Then he "smirked". I, in my short dress, then 27 years old, struggled not to faint.
Later I realized that he really looks at people that way. And I came to love that "smirk" and even have my own personal interpretations of it. It's a smile, in a quirky way; it's his way of smiling, liking or approving something without giving too much away; his way of being cute; or he is forcing himself to smile at you because he feels that you need to be acknowledged. It can be all of the above and more. I never knew for sure even as I later found the "smirks" adorable.
We used to drink together when we were all healthier and younger. Back then, we were living with them, and his grandchild from us was still just Ilaw in her baby years. He would bring out his stash of local brandy to share.
I remember one night, he asked us about certain decisions his son and I have made that were not really of the conventional sort. His son and I have been together for a couple of years and until then, he never asked or questioned anything that we did (well, not that I know of). That night, warmed by the brandy from the cool Baguio air, we welcomed his questions and he welcomed our answers. We talked and talked and talked, and truly got to know each other.
Maybe he did not fully understand, but he respected those decisions. And accepted me. There was never any judgment. And for that, Dad, thank you.
You have lived a full life. You are loved. And we miss you.
Dad passed away October 22, 2012.
This post was originally written in October and uploaded November 25, 2012.
Updated today October 23, 2013, his one-year death anniversary.
"I am an X in an indeterminate equation. And that X is the rock upon which I stand." - Mario Puzo
Comments