Panahon ng Cuaresma ng Nilisan Kami ni Tatay (It Was During the Lenten Season When Tatay Left Us)

Today I woke up sobbing. Tomorrow will be Palm Sunday, and I will go to mass. According to the Roman Catholic calendar, tomorrow will be exactly a year since I last spoke to my father. My father and I talked on the phone during last year’s Palm Sunday. He called me and asked if I already heard mass. I said I would, and I did. I went to hear the last Mass of that day. He will leave us forever, after two days.

I can’t talk about the pain. Grief as love, knows no bounds. I can not talk about that which I can not fully comprehend. All I’m certain of when Tatay left is that I could never truly smile, or laugh again. I have smiled since then, but my eyes betray my lips I know. And I have laughed out loud so many times afterwards, but they wouldn’t stand up, even to the gentlest of winds.

I have never known my father the way I want to know him. I know that he was the best father. But every child thinks that. I know that he was religious. His calloused knees and litany of praise tells me that. I know that he was color blind, his laughter every time I asked him what color I am wearing betrays otherwise. I know that he is intelligent. When looking at his work related papers, I saw that his IQ was above average and rated as such. I know that he loved politics and never got tired of reading the papers and watching the news. He loved learning, he always have a dictionary and thesaurus in his luggage, and a bagful of questions from me every time we talk (he considers me as having a brain that I actually use). And I know that he was forgiving, because he never ceased to love me, to love us.

But I really never knew the man. I have patches and snippets of his childhood, of his youth, of him as an employee, as a husband, son, brother, and friend. I have never known him wholly. I know him as my father. Sometimes, it’s enough though.

I learned about myself when he left me. I learned my strength. I learned my tolerance. And I learned just how far I could hurt. I died that day.

When my father arrived, in the house he built when we were young, and the home we grew up in, I was the one who welcomed him. I did not want to. I wanted to tell the man who brought him to go somewhere else. That he got the wrong address. My father would call me and ask if I went to mass on Easter Sunday, I’m sure. Or if I had taken out the grills in my room as he wanted me to do when we last talked, “Anak, patanggal mo ung bakal sa bintana mo, baka magka sunog, wala pang dalawang minuto tupok yang pwesto,” he counseled. But I can no longer beat around the bushes. And so I went and embraced him. I could not cry but I know that my tears were falling like rain. I did not say anything. I can not move my lips.

My Nanay and my only sister never got the courage to look at Tatay when he went home to us for good. When every one else have taken the time to look at Tatay, I went and I looked at him. I had to, just to be sure. The assurance I got left me to pieces. I never did find the rest of me that day. And I know I never will.

Everything was blurred after that. I never knew exactly what transpired. All I know is that I shielded Nanay, and so I took care of things. I was the one who did the grocery, who accepted the gifts, who talked to the well wishers. I am grateful up to now that I could never fully recall things.

I can not believe how the times passed by. This coming holy Tuesday (it was holy Tuesday last year when Tatay went to chase the white light), we will officially end our family’s year of mourning. I would stop wearing black. There will be a small gathering where prayers will be said, and where I, and the rest of my siblings (Nanay is in the US) will be asked to wear a black veil during the prayers, after which will be taken off, thus the term, babang luksa. I dread the time. I know it might bring back memories that I am still not ready to meet just yet. And I fear that I might loose Tatay one more time, in letting go of the pain, in letting go of the black shirts and blouses that I have worn for the past year. I know that you never loose a person when that person is in your heart. I just can’t rationalize why I feel this way. I really don’t know.

Tomorrow is Palm Sunday.

**I had to edit this entry before I posted it finding that I talked about my father in the present tense, e.g. he is color blind. I changed everything, and did it in the past tense. I never thought that verb tense could break my heart. I was so wrong.