The gift of love

Nothing is more beautiful than cheerfulness in my old man’s face. The creases on his face are deep and as he smiles or laughs, he displays bisecting lines of happiness.

I became privy to that joy all the more when Tatay recently celebrated his 72nd birthday. It was by far the grandest celebration –– in terms of quality, not quantity –– we ever had at home. Love was the motif of the party and there was an extravagant display of it. My family and I long waited for this, counting the days, praying that the moment comes and indeed it did.

Just a year ago, exactly on his birthday, Tatay was wheeled in to the ICU after he suffered a massive cardiac arrest. He was proclaimed clinically dead but we kept the faith that he would survive. The Guy Up There granted our plea and made us recipients of a miracle called life. Since then, every day has been a celebration of big and small miracles for us.

The celebration he did not have last year was the celebration we gave him recently. On his big day, he was seated on a monobloc chair under the himbaba-o tree in our backyard. In the morning, the smell of rain was imminent. Towards noon, however, the sun showed its rays, proving that no one and nothing would rain on my father’s parade.

There was a conspicuous display of elation on his face as he whistled kundiman tunes while waiting for his guests. When he got excited seeing old friends attending his party, he would leave his chair, pick up his cane and walk to welcome them. It was a fancy-less affair as visitors came in their pambahay (house clothes).

The reception area was simple. A buffet table was laden with hamonado, menudo, chopsuey, pancit and rice. Around it were long tables where visitors could eat. The surroundings were littered with multi-colored birthday balloons. And in the barrio, the balloons –– and the birthday cake –– get finished first than the food.

“Tingnan mo nga naman si Ising, matibay pa rin (Look at Ising, he’s still strong),” a relative gleefully commented on Tatay.

Upon this remark, Tatay would gamely stretch his legs, flex his muscles, pretending that he still has those killer biceps. He once had those muscles; after all, his body was used to the rigors of farming. Those are gone now. Though physically he’s half the man I used to know, his zest for life can match, if not surpass, your energy and mine.   

His memory was still keen. His proclivity for tracing the genealogy of this and that visitor was at its peak. It turned out, after long banterings, all his guests were our relatives. You know naman in the barrio, everybody is related to practically everybody. And that is one special trait of our place why I also always want to go home to Cabuyao every weekend.

From time to time –– especially when his old friends in the farming community greeted him “Happy birthday” –– I would see him wipe his tears with his ubiquitous Good Morning towel. Some of these visitors are Tatay’s friends whom he had not seen for ages. They were a band of misty-eyed men whose friendship had been rekindled. Those were tears of happiness, I know.

“O, birthday na birthday mo umiiyak ka (It’s your birthday, why are you crying?),” my mother asked him while giving him a tall glass of ube-macapuno ice cream, his favorite flavor.

“Wala. Masaya lang ako (Nothing. I’m just happy),” was my father’s reply.

“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” the once young cajoled Nanay and Tatay while the young ones coaxed my parents to do a “wedding kiss” of sorts by hitting plastic cups with plastic forks. Every utensil that moment was made of plastic, including plastic plates. But the people were very real as they made my old man very happy that day. 

The cajoling continued. That moment I saw my father blushed, flashing a toothless smile to everyone. His burnt skin became a reddish canvas of joy and delight. My mother seized the opportunity and planted a kiss on Tatay’s cheek. And they both melted in their loving embrace –– so warm that Tatay shed more tears of joy. The visitors around them clapped and rolled as they, too, wipe their tears. That was one magical moment. 

In this world –– as it was made clearer to me by the recent birthday celebration of my father –– there is this gift that can never be stolen from us. The more we expose it, the more people will benefit from it. They cannot literally get it from you. But they can replicate it.

It is the gift of love.

(Thank you for all your letters. For your new beginnings, please e-mail me at bumbaki@yahoo.com or my.new.beginnings@gmail.com. Have a blessed Sunday!)