probably not last until tomorrow.
|Christmas, 1987. Me and the dad with relatives.|
judgment floundering through debility and massive bleeding since last night.
His lanky limbs, pale yellow, parched with reed-like veins that are ridden with tubes. The
body is there, but the spirit is gone.
what He could. He gave him 67 years. And what a well-lived life he had.
some regrets. I regret that I had not helped him enough with the family, and
that I spent two years waiting for an opportune time to make amends. I regret
being a somewhat half-assed teenager pretending a parent was non-existent as he
lectured about throwing the money he put into my education to peer-influenced drunken
sprees. I regret turning down his invite for a short-noticed lunch-out Friday
last month. So I had work. So the car was on coding. So Manila is two, three hours
away and it was already 10:30am. There were other days to take the car instead
of the bus, and other days to deal with my clients’ ire. But there was only
that one Friday to spend an hour of lunch with the old Man.
and what we have left is Now.
arms around my daughter and press her tiny hands, firm and certain, like
I haven’t before. As I do, I thank the universe for being so lucky to have had such
a life-enchanting person grace my life and teach me invaluable lessons that
shall serve as the bow to the arrow that is my child.
I, but we shared more history than I and my biological father ever did. He
wasn’t able to finish high school, but he offered, by virtue of modeling, more
humanity than I ever learned in books. He prayed in temples and gods for my
safety since I was three. I rarely, if ever, told him this, but he is hands down, the best Father
I have ever had. Perhaps the greatest in the crime-infested skin of the earth
(I am sure you would say that about your own dad, yes?). I am grateful.
generosity and love. I had hoped Lia would see you again one more time and you two would play chase, just
like in my dream before I conceived her. Because, you know, three days in
Bataan just doesn’t cut it. But hey, maybe we will. Over the sun and the
violets, on a gondola, when our own earthbound journeys had mattered enough to