#SirBoy

Nine days

/ iamsupercarla / Leave a comment

Hi Tatay.

In nine days, you would have turned 60.  I was actually planning a big celebration for you, just us.  I made reservations at Sofitel Manila for an overnight stay and booked a table for 5 at Spiral for your birthday dinner.  You were very excited to become a senior citizen; its perks are quite nice.  But what really motivated me to do that was your enthusiasm for good food that I can’t seem to catch until we ate at Vikings, Mall of Asia to celebrate my 27th birthday.

The kitchen was your domain.  Some may argue that it should be the garage.  You are quite the handyman.  But your ingenuity and brilliance didn’t come with elbow grease and wrenches — they came with spices and butter, fresh seafood and choice cuts, greenest greens and sweetest fruits.

You, my father, had filled our bodies with so much nourishment.  I learned from Nanay that you always felt you’ve failed to provide for us.  You have never been more wrong.  No one has satiated our life more than you did.

I miss you each time I walk in the kitchen.  In any kitchen, for that matter.  Oftentimes, I hate myself for even attempting to cook the dishes you made; I know they will always be cheap replicates.  I regret not going with you to the market or not giving you enough money to get whatever you wanted in the market.  I should have watched you more closely, inhaled deeply, so as not to lose the aroma of what you’re making.  I should have followed you around, wrote down what you did in recipe cards (that you loathe so much), just so we’d have a semblance of your inspiration lying around.

My children shall miss so much as they will not have the privilege to taste your cooking.

As I count down to your 60th birthday, and I know it is too much to ask from someone who has passed, please make me better in the kitchen.  I know no other way to honor you but to serve the people we welcome in our home — family, relatives, visitors, boyfriends, girlfriends, friends, what have yous — with the food you so carefully and thoughtfully made, filled with so much passion and love, that the scent of the pan is enough for the soul to consume.

I miss you every day.  I hurt every day.  I love you every day.  And every day will never be enough.

9 days

Strength comes from the most unusual places

/ iamsupercarla / 2 Comments

I remember laying across chairs during my father’s wake.  Machiko Skye saw me from afar and trotted down to me, while holding a small pack of Skyflakes, one of her favorite snacks.

Fondly, she asked, “Tita Carla, may I sit here?”  For a two-year-old, her speech is close to impeccable.

“Sure, Machiko,” I replied.

So she sat by my head while I curled up tighter to fit in just two chairs.  She was eating silently, taking quick glances at me.

And then she started to stroke the top of my head, slowly and gently, and started singing:

Don’t you worry
Don’t you worry, child
See, heaven’s got a plan for you

She said, “I don’t know the other words, Tita.”

I don’t think I needed to hear more.

Tomorrow, it will be two months.  I will never get used to this.

Silent Sunday

/ iamsupercarla / Leave a comment

Today was a particularly quiet Sunday. We feel him everywhere and for some reason, not one of us bothered to fight the feeling of longing he left behind.

I wonder when the sad days would end. We all tried to go about the usual Sunday nuances but it was inescapable.

Sunday was about going to church with him driving, big lunch, long meryenda and a complaint that we wanted to go to the mall again with no intentions of buying anything.

Him being gone is an awful feeling, but missing him is worse.

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Surreal

/ iamsupercarla / 2 Comments

When Jennifer Aniston divorced Brad Pitt years back, she eventually graced the cover of Vanity Fair (September 2005) to tell her side of the story.  I remember this article because of this line:

While the tabloids insist on dividing Aniston’s emotions into neat, distinct chapters, the reality is that pain and denial and anger and resignation all blur together, sometimes at the same moment—and the lengthy process of mourning is nowhere near over.

Mondays will never be the same for me, or for anyone in my family.  There is no end in sight as to when this heart-wrenching pain will turn into a normal daily occurrence.  When we lost Lolo in 2007, I admit to be irreparably broken, but now… Tatay….

I can’t even imagine how I look like.  How we all look like.  Or if we’ll ever look the same.  If we’ll even think of trying to be the within the vicinity of thinking of being the same people.  Some things are irreversible and some things stay that way.

Although it follows the natural order of things, the shock doesn’t come any softer, any gentler of a blow to the face.  Breakfast is awful; I don’t know how we all manage to weave in and out of our kitchen.  My mother may be the light of our home, but my father is the walls.  The floors.  The ceilings.  He is everything.

Or was.

Every fiber in my being prays and hopes that he passed knowing how much we love him.  Because there was never a day in our lives we didn’t feel how much he loves us.

Or loved.