Thank you Pa...

Thirty more minutes and Sunday would have passed into Monday. I'd like to take these last few minutes of Father's Day to pay tribute to my Papa.

I miss him. After almost sixteen years, the pain that loss brings has faded to a dull ache, one that only manifests itself in times of loneliness, fear, extreme joy, during memorable occasions and moments of wanting to be a kid without a care in the world. I can't quite call to mind how he looks now not as easily as before but I can remember quite well how it felt to be wrapped in his arms and seemingly disappear into his embrace. During those moments, those arms that held me felt like home. Only in God's arms during my times of prayer do I feel that again. There is just something about Papa's hugs that can never be replicated.

My Papa was far from being a saint or the perfect father as definitions of perfect fathers go. Over the years though, I have come to realize that he was the best father he knew how to be and how he was, as a father was what I needed and tend to seek until now. He had his favorite vices though he never let them take over his life, for which I am grateful. He had his own share of shattering my expectations and losing my trust for a period of time but what healed me of those broken 'ideals' of what a father was 'supposed' to be was the knowledge that to him, I was the most precious thing in the world. I was his princess...daddy's little girl.

It was he who taught me how to swallow medicine in tablet form. He taught me how to bike for about half a minute before I toppled over and refused to learn again. He taught me how to defend myself -- from breaking free of a hand gripping my wrist to hitting the most sensitive places of an attacker enough to give me a chance to run. He taught me how to play chess and what an accomplishment it was for me to 'beat' him at a game. He cooked the best tasting adobo and showed me how to interpret people's actions because we didn't speak the same language -- he would give a running interpretation of 'Wok with Yan'. He introduced me to the joys of reading. I remember reading 'Hunt for Red October' when I was in grade 5.

He showed me how men were supposed to treat women -- I never remembered my parents arguing. If they did, they must have done it behind closed doors so I escaped the trauma of seeing my parents fight. He showed me what faithfulness and love meant. He always came home after a week-long absence due to his work as the company dentist of a sugar central which was located far from Bacolod. He taught me how to give massages, allowing me to walk on his back until I became too heavy, that is. He showed me what it meant to be a man in control of his emotions. However trying the circumstances, he never raised his voice nor his hands. Only once did I see him do anything physically violent -- he kicked a chair in frustration over the outcome of one of his 'adopted sons' life because of thoughtlessness. He taught me the value of generosity and affording other people their human dignity no matter their social status in life. He had a clinic at home and we would get patients sometimes in the dead of the night. He never turned them away even when they had nothing to pay him with for his services except for some farm produce or live chicken they had with them.

He introduced to me the world of classical music. I can still remember lazy Sundays where the only sound heard at home were the strains of the Ride of the Valkyries or the overtures of Swan Lake. He opened up to me the different periods in music history and the great artists that peopled them. We used to listen to these masterpieces on a record player otherwise known as a turntable. He also taught me some tai chi movements for no other reason than he wanted me to learn them. In short, he knew a little about almost everything -- Jack of all trades and master in some.

I miss you Papa. Happy Father's day. Thank you for loving me.