K,
On days like this, I wish you were still here. What, you would’ve been 62? Just about the right age to teach your (almost) teenage grandkids how to handle that bottle of ice-cold beer San Mig Light. Ooh, but maybe you’ll find it less tastier than Pale.
I remember that time, at the back of Mommy’s house, when I pulled out my pack of Marl Lights, and smoked with you for the first time. It being a year or two short of my university graduation, it had been a brave move, really. I expected you to say something, but you didn’t. We talked trivial stuff, nothing that pertains to what we were feeling, maybe something to do with Kuya. Or not. Hmm, again I may have gotten my dates mixed up. Perhaps it wasn’t about him; he would’ve been non-existent at the time.
Back then, I was just beginning to explore the world. With fearless steps, defiant, blessed with the know-it-all attitude I’d like to think I inherited from you. I was so sure. I didn’t need anyone. Not you. Not family. Not even my best-est friends then who probably knew me better than you guys did. So I probably kept the conversation casual, non-committal. At that age, don’t people usually do?
I was angry at you the day you died. Annoyed because you told everyone that you would die on your birthday, and hell, it was one of those promises you kept. Mostly I was angry at myself, for not spending enough time to get into serious conversations with you. For not letting myself discover your crazies, for not sharing with you mine. I did find it strange to talk with you. Never knew what to say, maybe because by the very nature of our relationship: father and daughter, male and female, generations apart, we never quite knew how. You always did tell me that if Dit and I had been boys, you would’ve bought us a ring and boxing gloves and that would be the tie that would bind us, our arena for a conversation, our would’ve starting point.
But we did have good times when we were growing up, didn’t we? Guitar, Green Grass Grew ‘Round, Mrs. Brown. Though my recollection of good times with you are few and far between, I wish there had been more. I loved your sarcasm when that teenage girl knocked on our door saying she swallowed her earring from laughing too hard and was there something you could do and you said sorry dear, and you didn’t even look at her, just said in your deadpan voice to wait for it to get out from the other end. Hah. Oh no. And now, a lightning bolt just hit me: I see your skepticism even in G.
How sad that I only felt the need to be with you when you were gone. What a lovely thought it is: I bring you a bottle of wine today, for your birthday, sneak in a bag of chicharon and a huge slice of cake for you, and I’ll teach you for the umpteenth time how to upload a photo in Facebook. Ah, but knowing you, you probably would know, even at 62.
But I guess these salty bits of pork rind and mouthwatering chocolate fillings we have here don’t compete. So have a rock-and-rollin’ day, Pa. I know where you’re at—you’re celebrating at the grandest table of all.
I hope I end up there and I’ll see you ‘round, but given our notorious luck health-wise, please know I’m so not yet ready to leave, alright? I just thought I should have you know…I really, really wanna be the one to tell my granddaughters about you and how crazy their roots are. Yep, over a bottle of Pale or two.
D.
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Pictured: Garden of Memories, Taguig
Finally Dee 