This is the dream
love
Eight days
Hi Tatay.
I have created a list of everything that I need to accomplish this year. Mostly, these are the things you bugged me to do already, and I’m sorry you’re not here to see me finish them. You’ve always said that I am at my prime, and as much as I want to curl into a ball, bury my face in the scent of your clothes, I have so much time ahead of me. I would not be your daughter if I wasted around and not seize the opportunities presented to me.
Honestly, I only have three. I regret not having a better memory of the things you want me to do, but I believe these are the things that matter to you the most.
I promise to learn to swim. That’s one of the things that has constantly bothered you. You’re a seafood person and yet I, your only daughter, your eldest, have a hard time appreciating the sea. It is my fear of not breathing that prevents me from getting into the water. Never mind the fact that it can save my life, or the fact that I live in a tropical country. My fears have taken over me — and yours hardly ever took over you. So this year, I will learn how to swim. I will work hard to learn it as fast as I can, so I can go back to Coron, the one place you found yourself most at peace with, and feel the water you were in surround me and my being.
I promise to learn how to drive a stick. I know you’re not impressed with automatic transmission drivers. For city driving, that should bode well enough, but given the number of times our family go out of town, I want to be one of those people they can count on during long drives. They can always count on you, Tatay. Whenever we go out, they don’t have to worry about anything because we had you. Now that you’re gone, Ted, Daniel and I are scaling the wall to be your replacement. But just so we’re clear, we will never do. Nothing and no one can replace you. Nothing and no one will ever attempt to. It is with mere hope that we can continue your legacy… and for me, it starts with driving right.
Last and certainly not the least, I promise to continue studying. You see, when you passed, I stopped. I know that’s not really what you wanted, but I just couldn’t bear the thought of going through the motions without having you at the end of the day to tell you all about it. If there’s something you continuously encouraged us to do, it is to constantly find ways to improve ourselves. I promise I will finish my masters at the soonest possible time. I will relearn photography and send you postcards from earth. I will be on top of my class. This was always your goal, to provide us with the best education a father can ever give to his children. I will not fail.
I know these do not really matter as much as it should. It would matter more if you were here. But I know you’re guiding me. I know you will never leave me. You are under my skin. You will never go away.
You will always be my father and I, in turn, will do everything so that when people see me, they see you as clearly too.
I miss you.
Nine days
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.
Surreal
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.
The cowardice of a man
the salt of your skin 