Long time, no see

Next weekend is my father’s first death anniversary. We’re celebrating in a big way and consider this an official invitation to the public. On May 27, there will be a memorial concert for him at Casa San Miguel in San Antonio, Zambales. It is a whole afternoon activity for friends and family that begins with a tree-planting at 3 p.m. and culminates at 6 p.m. with a concert featuring the Pundaquit Virtuosi, Myra Beltran, Paul Morales, sons, daughters and grandchildren. My brothers will be playing, my sister unveils a mosaic she’s been working on for months, and I get to read a poem.

I can’t believe it’s been a year since he left us. His death, actually, was what brought me to Philippine Star. Doris Magsaysay-Ho, a cousin of mine, was at the wake when I delivered his eulogy. To honor my father, she asked me to give a copy of it to her. A few weeks later it appeared in the Star. My mother always reminds me that this space on the page was my father’s final gift to me.

I have been dreaming of him often. In the beginning, my dreams of him were long and looked like short, short stories. In short, they were dreams with plot and characters. These days, the dreams portray him in everyday scenes. I can imagine my psyche spinning out these tiny images – Pa on the computer, Pa in the garden, Pa turning on the lights, Pa walking to his room. I’m not certain why the theme of the dreams have changed. I am only glad that the dreams continue. For me, it is a sure sign that he is still in conversation with me. I can imagine him saying, "See, I’ve watered the garden here!"

My father and I always communicated well. He was always very clear about what he wanted me to be and what he wanted for me. As his last child, he had finished with the rigmarole of expectations with his older children. With me, he had realized that his role as a parent was to make sure he gave me as many options as possible. Perhaps with discipline and guidance I would be able to choose well. In a way, I fulfilled many of the dreams he could not fulfill because of his own constraints. More than anything, my father wanted to be an engineer and a writer. As a working student and scholar at the Ateneo though, he could not afford the equipment necessary for engineering. Law was the next best thing and it encouraged him to make use of his love of words. Perhaps that was why he allowed (and supported) all his children to fulfill their dreams. Disappointment and compromises were too familiar, and I guess he wanted to shield us from that.

When I was six, he called me into his large office. This office was considered sacred ground, and we were not allowed to play here. He did a big song and dance about setting a meeting with me. He sat on his large chair, and I sat with my feet dangling barely able to peer above the desk piled high with papers. Our topic for this conference, he said to me, in all seriousness, "was about your not eating breakfast."

He began to lecture me about the digestive system, taking the time out to draw a figure that represented my stomach. He told me about the acids that churned inside of me. Rubbing his hands together, he said, "Those acids need something to digest. If there’s nothing to digest, like these hands that rub against each other that have nothing in between them, friction will result, causing heat and causing pain. Someday, those acids will be strong enough to eat your entire tummy." By this time, my eyes were large and frightened, and I promised to never skip breakfast again. He shook my hand and brought me to the door. That was far more effective than being scolded and berated, I must say. Spoken to like an adult, I had no choice but to act like one.

My father’s special gift was the ability to execute "grand gestures." He was not an emotional man, so he spoke no flowery words and did not know how to be comforting or consoling. But if one needed a knight in shining armor, a companion at war, a rescuer, no one could do this better than my father. Almost as if he couldn’t help himself, he would effortlessly rescue family members, provide help, both financially and emotionally. For a while, his children, emotionally hungry for his kindness, found it strange how he could afford to be kind to others, more than to us.

I think what I hunger for more than anything is to see him. He used to say to me whenever I’d visit as a young wife, "Long time, no see." I always knew it was part lambing, but also part admonition. He did not like it if people did not go out of their way to see him. Even if I was married, and a mother already, the imperative to say hello was always part of my practice. Arriving from work, from school, from travel abroad, the first thing on the list was always to peep into his room and say hello. Today, I cannot travel abroad without passing by his lot at Loyola Memorial.

It is the smallest of things that remain with me – the smoothest hands, for example. Even as teenagers, my sisters and I would ask him to wash our hands. The neat toes and toenails, I would sometimes cut myself when he did not have the time to go to the barber shop. The faint stubble on his chin, salt and pepper in color, which I used to take out using a tweezer! Yes indeed, long time, no see.

But the dreams keep me tied to him. Every morning when I wake up remembering his presence in my sleep, I am comforted no end. I’d like to think these are not just dreams my psyche have come up with to console me in my grief. I’d like to believe that he appears in my dreams because our love is so strong.

To his friends and family who are reading this, on behalf of my mother, my brothers and my sisters, please join us, no longer in our grief, but in our celebration of his life and memory. On May 27, at Casa San Miguel in San Antonio, Zambales. You may call 933-2392 for information. We look forward to seeing you all there!