IT must have been really tough for you then, Tatay. You were 69 when I came into the world, a helpless tiny infant.
Then you were in your mid-70s when I was a hyperactive, crazy-dramatic, irrationally demanding and attention-hungry toddler. But you loved me well and you took care of me as a doting lolo-tatay.
I didn’t help make it easy for you. I was a very naughty child. Once, I made you gasp for air after you had to chase me around the house to try to discipline me with your scary sinturon (leather belt). I was mischievous and rather challenging, so I ran away from you, unmindful that I was giving you a really tiresome exercise. I still got the whip, all right, and remembered never to mess up with you again.
But more than remembering the lesson learned, I wish I didn’t have to make fatherhood even harder for you than it already was. But I was your daughter and you knew what you had to do and you loved me still. I never even once got to really thank you for loving me in spite of the very difficult situation we were in.
You made the most of what we had and tried your best so I, as a child, would not feel the lack of a strong father in my very vulnerable years.
I know a lot of children who aren’t so fortunate to get even a glimpse of a father. But you always gave your best. Dressed in a barong Tagalog, you fetched me from my school on the first day of classes. People must’ve thought it was weird, but I knew you had not fetched a child from school in a very long time and must’ve forgotten that you could opt to dress down for it.
Fortunately, the more appropriate time to wear the barong Tagalog came when we accepted my first medal in school. You must’ve been the oldest father in the Recognition Day crowd, but on that day you must’ve felt proud. At least I hope you did. Because apart from that, I can’t deny that I gave you a lot of unnecessary trouble growing up.
When I was 4 or 5 years old, I gave you quite a shock when I stuck my head between the wooden bars of our sari-sari store. Naturally curious, I played and tried to see if my tiny head (no, not tiny, I was fat!) could fit between the wooden bars of our store window.
I was amused that it did, but quickly I realized I couldn’t get my head out. So I cried and wailed like a siren for our entire little town to hear! You had to run out and call your carpenter friend to cut the bars using the smallest saw. Funny, but I don’t remember how afraid I was with the saw only an inch away from my neck!
You were in a state of real panic then, but all I could think of was, "Oh, my God! I’m sure Tatay will keep my head intact!" Of course, you did. Nanay and I would later look back at that time and, though we both knew it wasn’t funny at all, we’d end up laughing hard about it.
Nanay had all these stories of how tense you were when she was pregnant. You probably were anxious that the capacity to take care of a person was already beyond you. But see, we turned out fine because you never let your age get in the way of being the best father that you could be.
Before you got very ill, we enjoyed fun rides together around the town, on your bike and your old truck. Next to your patience, love and care, my ultimate gift from you was this little bike with a sidecar that you got from a passing junk collector. With your natural craftsmanship, you made it look almost new, and I had something that most of my playmates then could only dream of: my own wheels, a real funky ride!
When you finished reassembling that bike for me, you became the first magician in my eyes, turning junk into precious treasure. Later, I would realize that you were indeed a magician because you could see things differently. What others saw as trash, you transformed into a magical wonder of a toy. And when I was difficult to love, you looked through me and found good reasons to never give up on me.
You were the first one to go the extra mile to love me a bit more each day, even when I was unwittingly making myself so unlovable. Movies like "Riding in Cars with Boys" where a daughter can talk her heart out to her father never fail to make me cry, because it’s an important experience that I wish I had been able to share with you (including more fun truck rides around the town).
See, even before I could understand a bit about myself to start talking of my angst, you had become too sick to talk to me about even the mundane things. It was just part of my being human to always wish for more. But in hindsight, you gave me everything you could while you still could, and that’s more than enough for me.
I was 17 when you died. I prayed for God to let you live until you’re "90-plus" because I thought by then you would have walked me down to the altar and met your grandchild from me. But God said, no, you had to go. God, of course, is always right. There’s a time for everything and you made our time together all worthwhile.
There is no way for me to thank you enough. But I’m writing this for my sake--so I’ll remember that my father loved me, and that love should be enough to carry me through whatever difficulties I’d meet.
I’m sure you and Nanay are watching over me now, and will always do. So here’s to love and to a great father. Happy Father’s Day, ’Tay!
