Until now I can still remember how at one time in my rage, I took all of his clothes out of the cabinet, stormed into the sari-sari store where he was having his drunken revelry and threw the garments on the dingy floor as if saying that we've had enough of his folly. Yes, it's perfectly fine to us for him to live with his vices and not take a single step into our home anymore. At that time I have
n't seen the expression on his face. I was blinded by my hatred.
On still another occasion, I remember that in my annoyance I hurled a glass jar at him. I missed, the glass jar shattered into pieces.
I cannot recall how many times I cursed him. How many glass jars I attempted to hurl at him. How many times I wished for him to go away and in so doing us a favor by excusing his abominable presence away from us.
But where did all the hate take me?
I graduated with Latin honors. I am pursuing a graduate degree under a scholarship that provides me with more than what I need. I am working hard to lift our lives out of poverty. In my two decades in this world, although I had more than my fair share of difficulties I have emerged unfazed and firm. I have given my parents enough reason to be proud of who I am and what I have achieved.
On quite rare occasions when I am able to come home I looked at my father and saw how years went by. The usually strong and dreadful voice was replaced by a meek and soft-toned one. The once brooding physique was slackened by the burden of age. The once fiery eyes were now replaced by faint embers, mellowed by the passing of the years.
Upon seeing the emaciated figure I suddenly realized how he worked hard for us all his life. How silently he battled his own inner wars. How he kept all to himself and to bottles of liquor. In the company of distilled spirits he surrendered himself. He can't let us see him struggle. He can't let us see him down. Despite his many vices he still provided for us. Though he struggled, he still showed that he is our pillar of strength.
I could choose to be delinquent. I could opt to be a drop-out. I could waste all my life sulking over the fact that I do not have that ideal father one sees in the movies. But I didn't. And why?
Because he was there all along.
I remembered how he would bathe me and my brother when we were kids. He would brush our feet briskly like a dirty pot to make sure we're spick and span. He would cut our nails with the seriousness of an engineer drafting a blueprint. He was even our own personal barber. Although sometimes we regret we had our haircut done by him. Yes he loved us then and he loves us now. And although there may be a lot of times when it is not quite apparent, Time has granted me the silent knowledge that my father loves us. It is I think the advent of maturity that I have come to understand him, be open to him and give him another chance to show how a father might care for his family.
Today he turns 46. Almost half of his life he has been with me. Although sometimes I cannot feel his guidance I reckon it was because it was I who looked away. I do not wish to sound cheesy but now, I am grabbing the chance to show him that it is not yet too late.
Happy Birthday, Daddy Eric. I may not consider you the best dad in this world but if ever somebody gives me the power to choose who my father would be, I will never give you up for someone else.
Keep well.
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