My father never told me he loved me

My father, not even once, ever told me he loved me. He showed it.

This was my recent reflection on my father’s 14th death anniversary. I smiled at the thought. I am who I am today because I discovered my father’s love in more ways than one. More than words could say.

Perhaps I was born to a generation where a father was not vocal but demonstrative about his love for his children. The scarcity of his words was made up for by the avalanche of his deeds. My father’s love language was exhibited in his actions. I find solace in saying again and again that my father never said he loved me. He truly showed it, in big ways, in small ways, for more than one reason.

It was in his palms, coarse and calloused. His were the hands of a farmer, burnt from their constant exposure to the sun, lined by their relentless acquaintance with the earth. Those were the hands that fed me. Those were the same hands that never spared the rod. The same hands that gave me the necessary pat. And, on one occasion, the same hands that got pricked when he proudly pinned on me my high school graduation medal.

If that is not love, what is?

It was in his gray hair — and the wisdom that came with it. Don’t steal. Don’t touch things that are not yours. It’s always easier to tell the truth than to invent lies. Don’t live a life of pretension. Aspire. Hard work is the answer to success. Those were some of the lessons he taught me. They are still my guideposts in life.

If that is not love, what is?

It was in his toothless smile that gave away his soul. He was a busy man. Before the crack of dawn he was already in the field, tilling the land, rain or shine. He would come home shortly after night dropped its cloak — with some quail eggs that he found in the nests in the field, his pasalubong for his kids. He would come home with a smile.

If that is not love, what is?

It was in his bushy, unruly eyebrows and shy cleft chin. Of all his children, I was the only one who got both these physical traits. He was never bothered by blemishes nor was he concerned about imperfections. He showed by example how to be comfortable in one’s own skin. That it was best to be true to the self.

If that is not love, what is?

It was in his laughter — crisp and crusty. He did not leave an inheritance but he left a legacy of a life that should be lived with happiness. In the little that he could afford to give for his family’s needs, he gave his all, with a happy heart, with a promise that life would be better if we just held on to our dreams and morals. He taught me to be happy and content.

If that is not love, what is?

It was in his principle — solid and unflinching. My father was unschooled. Almost a no-read-no-write type of a father. But he knew how to stand his ground. In an agrarian case where he needed to take the witness stand, he told the court the truth and nothing but and he helped win the case. My father said truth was like the ABCs of life. He told me that I could start reciting the alphabet in K and still end in Z. Then begin the whole drill in A. “Pag hawak mo ang katotohanan, pagbali-baligtarin man ang sitwasyon, mananalo pa rin ang katotohanan (If you’re holding on to truth, no matter what the order of the situation is, the truth will still prevail). He gifted me with firm principles.

If that is not love, what is?

It was in his steadfastness. He was resolute in his decision. Never was he perturbed by little challenges. He knew his limitation was in the inability to read but he was able to come home to Laguna from Quezon City when one time his companions inadvertently left him behind. He asked around, flagged down jeepneys and buses and asked about the routes. He tried and succeeded in coming home. “’Wag kang matatakot magtanong kapag hindi mo alam ang isang bagay (Don’t be afraid to ask if you don’t know something),” he said. He taught me about life.

If that is not love, what is?

It was in his baritone voice, lilting, soulful. In the few times he lulled me to sleep when I was a kid, he sang to me kundimans. His rendition of Anak Dalita is still vivid in my mind, the lyrics are left in my soul because he taught me to sing it. And in the early days of YouTube, he asked for the song to be played in my laptop; his frail vibrato accompanied it, in his sunset days. On his deathbed, I sang him the same song. His eyes were closed, contraptions all over him. He pressed my hand when I could barely hit the note. My eyes were moist. He gripped my hand tighter, longer, firmer.

If that is not love, what is?

It was in his innate craftsmanship when he made me a wooden top that he fashioned from a dried Sta. Elena branch. He did not want me to feel left out by the young kids in the neighborhood playing with their Batman & Robin robots. I had my own toy from my own Superman. The top is still spinning in my mind.

If that is not love, what is?

It was in his humor. My father was a funny man, especially in his old age. He told me that there were things that were beyond my control. And the remedy was always a light heart, and a little humor would many times do the trick. He taught me that humor could go a long way — in life, in love.

If that is not love, what is?

It was in his faith — nontraditional in his belief yet faithful just the same. He barely went to church but believed in God and praised Him before he went to bed. And when he woke up in the morning, he made the sign of the cross, mumbled his pleas to God and trusted that He would guide him as he toiled in the farm the whole day. He told me to have faith and to keep it even when times were uncertain, when the odds were not in my favor, when I was not winning, when I was rejected. He taught me humility. He taught me about life.

If that is not love, what is?