Dad's Day

Dad’s day

Jump to Comments

Last weekend was Father’s day.

And I couldn’t bring myself to say "Happy Father’s Day, Daddy."

It used to be so easy…

I don’t know if it’s because I’m 25 or if it’s because I’ve become too much like him in his no-nonsense-no-emotion swagger. But I just couldn’t bring myself to give him a big hug and say ever so sweetly "Happy Father’s Day,Daddy…"

I’ve seen my youngest sister do it for no occasion whatsoever and it
sometimes makes me want to gag. Not because it’s a bad thing but
because it’s so cheesy. It’s Her way. Not mine.

My other
sister transforms into this chatterbox when she’s with my dad…well,
she is a chatterbox to begin with but when dad comes over to the
apartment in Iloilo, you might as well figure she has an on and off
button hidden somewhere… and it makes him happy, actually. To be
listening to her pseudo-hypochondriac episodes or her dramatic account of her daily existence… I couldn’t bring myself to do that too. It’s Her way, not mine.

Though I remember they used to be my way. Just not anymore. It used to
be my way to have his arms all to myself. Now there is always a sister
on both arms. What can i do? Daddy has three daughters but only two
arms … He wouldn’t be able to walk if I clung to his leg .

Last Sunday though, I had him all to myself , but I just couldn’t tell him three cheesy words.



So instead I went with him to his farm. He loves his farm almost as
much as his children. It was his father’s legacy. So now it’s his
legacy. I imagine he’s trying to figure out which of his eight children
would want to take care of his little patch of rice fields.

I took pictures.

Nothing special.

I just wanted to take snippets of the things he holds in his heart. I wanted to remember those things forever.

His growing crops…

His fruit trees…

…The pink snail eggs (rejected caviar painted pink) which he purposefully crushed with the soles of his rubber boots…

Of tadpoles swimming like the sperm they taught us to scrutinize in Microbiology Lab…

Of slow but merciless snails eating up our rice without forgiveness…

Of chickens and ducks…

Of our horses, Cloud and Nine…

…And of my father’s feet.



I was following him as we made our way across the rice fields and I was looking at his feet.

Clad in rubber boots…

Clad in brown fudge mud cakes smudged to the sides of his soles…

Clad in pink snail eggs mercilessly crushed with the fudge cakes…

I realized I wasn’t looking anywhere else. Like I had something
covering my peripheral vision so i can see nothing but ahead. Like a
horse. Except I wasn’t being led. I was following. And There were no
covers hindering my sight. I was simply afraid to look anywhere else
but his footsteps because I might take a wrong step and lose my balance. I was holding the camera on my left hand and my parasol on the right, and I felt like an acrobat balancing on a high rope.

They say that the most important things you learn in life never come
subtly. They may creep up from behind you or meet you in the face. But
when when they hit you, they hit you hard that something in you is
unsettled, blown into a whirlwind, into a disturbing internal
pandemonium that you are never quite the same again.

I don’t know if it’s right or wrong.

I don’t know if I or any of my brothers and sisters could ever give
justice to those fudge-caked, pink-snail-egged rubber boots.

I just know I have always been looking at my father’s feet from behind…

Careful to take the steps he took…

Realizing that my footprints barely fit into his…


We took his usual tour of the land. He explained to me how small birds
could destroy the younger crops. He pointed out which are the most vulnerable and which are at the stage where birds can no longer harm them. I felt like I was Jeane-Louise Finch listening to Atticus about killing mockingbirds. And all that time, I was watching his feet.

And wondering when will I be brave enough to make my own marks on the earth…

…Or when will I be able to greet him "Happy father’s Day" again, in my very own way…


June 24, 2008