I remember my sisters telling me that when mom and dad had these interminable quarrels, with my mom the violent and raucous aggressor, my father would drink himself to oblivion and sleep in the office. I myself, I saw him one time when I was like 6 years old, sleeping off a very odoriferous and heavy hangover, with his clothes and luggage thrown out by my mom, scattered on the lawn. Most of the times when he was gone I usually assumed he's at the office, drunk, or playing chess with his co-accountants. I also thought the guards were tolerant of him. When he did that, there was a semblance of peace in the house. But not for long. Mom usually turned on my fellow siblings, and I would end up crying and sobbing when I saw tears falling from one of my sisters' eyes.

Upon reaching 20 I started drinking heavily. Gin, beer, wine, rum, whiskey, scotch, vodka, and cocktails were my bestfriends. I also smoked, pack after pack, just like my dad. Hence, my acute asthma. Hence, my good old soft spoken dad, that former GI who fought Japs in the jungles of Asia, succumbed to lung cancer in 1982. I used to cry to ceiling, shouting, why, why do I have to lose such a wonderful dad? He was the most talented in his family. He was good sketcher, like I am. He was poet, like I am. He was gentleman. He'd punch muggers and abusers of women into submission. He was a knight of modern times. My dear good old poor dad, that's why when I pray for him, I imagine him playing chess like I used to watch him, outfoxing his colleagues. He'd wave back at me.

When I want to reflect, just be alone, I'd sleep sometimes at the office. My wife, knowing the story of my life, understands, trusts me. The guards tolerate me too, us sharing donuts and coffee and a few ribald comments. It's like reliving my father's moments of peace, respite from the rancors at home.

I miss my dad. I think he has done a great deal for my life in his absence as with his presence. Missing him somehow strengthened my faith and made me hope all the more for reunion with him in our final spiritual home.

I wrote this story for another blog. It's an autobiography of sorts, recalling his final moments when I was a kid:

"I think 1982 is a good year to die. My body is all swollen. My lungs may as well be breathing in shards of glass. I am in constant excruciating pain. My God, thank God this will soon end. The waking moments wherein this man fought against the Imperial Army in the jungles of Bikol, my memorable first dance with Pearl, or my promotions in the government have come to this. I am drifting in and out of consciousness, but these hours are all the more precious for me, and this eight-year-old boy beside me. My son, who is oblivious of the cancer cells consuming me, is the only one who has made me so happy in these my last days.

All my children and even my wife have more and more left me alone in this room. I hold no bitterness. Humans don’t feel easy around a terminally ill person. I reckon they could not bear seeing my pain as I am committed to this bed, the smell of sickness all around. All kept away as much as possible, except perhaps my favorite daughter Simone. But it was my son who really lay beside me more than the others.

I remember when he would stay up late at night just to wait for me arriving from work. He would take off my smelly socks and bring me my slippers, looking up to me with my own round brown eyes on his face, smiling like a cherub. I also remember when he dropped his spoon and fork when I suddenly bellowed at him for holding his utensils the wrong way. Yet unfortunately, my time with him was too few and far between. It’s too late to change that.

He touches my hand with his small fingers as he sits across me. Silently, he looks into my eyes, waiting for me to get well so that we can visit again the Zoo. He has learned to operate the Sony cassette player beside the bed to play for me Stardust Melody, Tennessee Waltz, and Green Green Grass of Home, melodies that calmed me after the war.

My son climbs up my bed and snuggles close to me. He seems not to smell the last aromas of necrotic tissues around my chest. Here he is, smiling in his sleep. I can’t even wipe off the tears flowing down my cheeks, knowing very, very well that I will not be there for him as he grows up. I had written his aunt Honey to take care of his studies when I’m gone.

Let me hug you one last time, son. I love you. I love your mother, brothers, and sisters. You have made me the proudest father ever. Goodbye. I will still watch over you. I can’t leave you.

You may not know me, your father, completely, but I will know you very well."