Once, In An Old Brown Envelope

Dearest Papa, there were 877 words I wanted to tell you eight months since you left.

When they lowered that white rectangular box where you quietly lay, top of which was filled with fresh flowers and everyone's tears, I desperately wanted to do three things: 1) reprimand people for disturbing your peaceful state with their loud cries, 2) beg the memorial park employees not to cover you with soil, and 3) join you in your infinite rest. The third one would have been easier.

You were right, transitions are necessary. However, I had to go through one that's both abrupt and distressing. The shift from celebratory to melancholic was out of my control. Instead of letting me go for the vacation you thought I deserved for graduating with honors, you had to knot commissions on my wrist - something you do not want to do, especially when you knew how excited I was to start life on my own. To me, your departure implied that I was entitled to only a few cries to immediately assume a mature disposition and take care of the responsibilities. With the way the family lost enthusiasm for each breakfast, I decided to be the sane one. Besides, I no longer had the license to be the lighthearted kid I used to be.

But I failed. The first month had been a state of denial and regression. It took a lot of effort to pull off a self-assured face to present to Mama and the two boys and talk about moving on. In reality, it was I who found it more difficult to get up in the morning and think of all the paper works you left. The thought that at 21, I am already agonizing over how to comply the government's requirements added to my being cynical (I told you, Anderson assessed these as mechanism of controlling an imagined nation). There was rejection of all sorts and I pretended it was fine. But it really was not. When everyone was asleep, I would curl up in my bed and think how your arrival would be like. Yes, it was inconvenient to have lured myself into thinking that you were only out of town. I eventually got confused with my own unstable state.

By now, you already know how I suffered from all the repressions I created. While I would like to consider that as a skill, I realized it was hard to postpone grief. I was aware we were physically apart, but it was only a couple of months ago when my system finally accepted the fact that you were never coming back. I woke up in the middle of the night and looked for you, hoping to start another conversation over coffee. The absence of your bed roused me to check the outdoor seat where I thought I would find you smoking, but I found your empty ashtray in a corner instead. I moved back, shut the door and noticed a difference in the interior of the house. On the wall, I saw your still image in a blue Sherlock Holmes shirt smiling at me. I couldn't smile back, realizing that a father-daughter connection like ours has finally reached its end.

I’d like to hang on to your passion for life. I would like to forget several things - how you were immediately hospitalized the day after my college graduation, diagnosed as having only two weeks to live, suffered continuously for almost two months and died on a Sunday morning. You must have smiled when I tried to prevent your fingers from being cold and gray and motionless. That cold breeze on my shoulders must have been you trying to whisper, "I thought I paid your school to teach you anatomy. I am not coming back to life."

I miss you Pa. I miss the smell of your red Marlboros. I miss our long drives to escape the city, our beach retreats, the way we exchanged stories about our day and how we engaged in animated discussions over coffee while everyone's asleep. I miss trying to divert your temper every time we're stuck in the middle of a red light by prompting you to sing your fave Beatles songs. I miss your amusing manner of dismissing my achievements as mediocre but bragging it to your friends when I’m out of earshot. I miss your habit of trying to make problems sound funny and make funny things problematic. I miss your lectures, your unpredictable thoughts, your infectious laughter - just everything about you.

Things have taken a different trajectory now that I am trying to employ a new lens in viewing the world. It has been eight months since you left. Drowning me in misery, as how one of my mentors have stated, would be an insult to all your efforts. You’d be glad to hear that  Mama and my two younger siblings are doing just fine. As for me, I’m learning to enjoy coffee alone right outside the house and trying to be comfortable taking the driver's seat. Let’s say there’s a huge chance I’d lose it again, given that you’ve labeled me as a jack of all trades, master of none. But Pa, I may have quit keyboards, guitar, soccer, organizations, parties, allegiances, work, and a thousand other things, but I will never quit being the daughter of an admirable man, even when he's not here anymore to witness that.

Ara Largo
February 2008