When a parent dies
One becomes a full-fledged grown-up only after a parent dies. This happens no matter how old we already are when one of our parents passes on to the afterlife. Gone are the unrestrained counsel dispensed as reprimands by an ascendant who pays no heed to a descendant’s title, power, or possessions. Gone is the fallback for shelter, money, and advice, when turbulent storms upend our lives. Gone is one of our most ardent fans, who feels most proud during milestones in our lives.
For as long as our forebears are alive, we will always be children in their eyes. We will forever feel like kids in their presence. There may still be a remaining parent who survives in our midst, but without the other, the four-legged chair that has provided support and comfort in our lives would precariously stand on two legs.
My father breathed his last at the ripe age of 87 on Nov. 20. He left behind my 84-year-old mother, his five children, four children-in-law, and 11 grandchildren.
Our father put into practice his agriculture degree by cultivating our modest farm. Our mother served as a public school teacher at the local elementary school that her children attended. Despite our parents’ diligence and industry, they struggled to provide for our needs as a family. As children, we didn’t have the luxuries enjoyed by many of our cousins. Instead, my two brothers and I were exposed to the sun and the elements when we helped our father and our grandfather with farm chores, while our two sisters assisted our mother at home. As the eldest, I personally experienced the kind of hard labor required in the planting, harvesting, and drying of rice and corn. Looking back, the difficulties our father exposed us to have equipped us with grit and determination, which have proved to be the most valuable of all the lessons we gained in life.
Our father did not allow adversities to hinder our dreams. He moved heaven and earth to make us attain our professional aspirations and, in the process, he equipped us with wings to overcome adversities. He tapped the support of sympathetic relatives, he engaged in supplemental means to augment family income, used scholarships, and eventually produced a brood of two lawyers, one doctor, and two nurses, who are now based in America.
Beyond the bits and pieces of him that survive through us, his descendants, what else remains of our father that transcends his death? We have inherited the wealth of friends he accumulated throughout his life. Many of his friends remind us that he was the friendliest person they had met in their lives. They don’t exaggerate. In public transport rides, our father would initiate chats with complete strangers who unsuspectingly sat beside him. Before they reached their destination, our father would have probed his seatmate’s genealogy, would have found out about their problems, would have offered solutions to their tribulations, and would have extracted a commitment for an exchange of visits to their respective homes as if they had been longtime friends.
Another of our father’s traits imprinted in his friends’ minds is his ability to crack jokes and narrate funny stories even under the most serious circumstances. A few days before he died, our father’s worried caregiver started to stroke his forehead when he developed difficulty breathing. My father motioned for his caregiver to come closer and then whispered, “Be careful, my wife gets easily jealous.”
Our father had a huge zest for travel. When he was in his 70s and already using a cane to walk, he suddenly had an urge to visit his friend in Batanes, whom he had last seen in college. He packed a few clothes and boarded one of the small planes that transport passengers between Cagayan and Batanes, refusing to be accompanied. Upon reaching Batanes, his friend’s daughter informed him that her father had already died 15 years earlier. But because he regaled his friend’s family with so many stories about their patriarch, my father was invited to stay, and he was even given a guided tour of the island for several days, all for free.
One time, my father saw a group of World War II veterans preparing to travel to Leyte, where they were to take part in the commemoration of the “Leyte Landing” of liberation forces. With his prematurely white hair and mischief in his mind, he mingled with the veterans and donned a veteran’s vest being distributed to everyone. He managed to board the military cargo plane that transported the veterans to Tacloban City, took part in the celebration, and marched with the veterans, without anyone finding out that he was only 3 years old when the war broke out in our islands.
Farewell, Papa. When I hear thunder in the sky, I will imagine angels laughing hysterically at one of your funny stories.
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