eulogy (more than a year later)

The clearest childhood memory I have of Daddy was of the time when we went to Fiesta Carnival, which was, back then, still a hip and happening place in Cubao. I remember wearing an itchy yellow dress and white mary janes and when Daddy introduced me to one of the giant statues there—that of a clown—I started bawling my lungs out since I was terrified of the clown’s huge painted face. But with his usual low laugh and encouragement, I overcame enough of my fear to later on actually sit on the shoulder of that clown for a picture.

My dad was always like that—he pushed, teased, cajoled, encouraged, laughed you into realizing the potential he'd been seeing in you all along. He always believed in his kids—in their intelligence and talents—pretty much because, he always said, “May pagmamanahan kasi.” This confidence in his family and in himself was nothing short of astounding. He believed we could do anything, and so he would always drive us into going beyond our perceived limitations.

This is not to say that Dad was some maniacal slave-driver—he was actually more of the sentimental sort. I remember how every valentine’s day and birthday without fail, a dozen roses would always arrive for mommy (mostly yellow, her favorite), and how he would embrace and kiss us whenever he felt like it, how he took us to the best restaurants, and how he insisted on buying us the best things his money at the moment could buy. He gave each of his children silly pet names—like “Megoy Panghi” and “Pupay”. My mom he always called Darl—short for darling. And we, not just my mom, all felt that indeed we were that—my dad’s darlings.

My dad loved to live. He was completely, absolutely tone deaf but would always compete for the mic in videoke sessions to belt out the most hideous renditions of "My Way", "Bikining Itim", and Julio Iglesias’ "To All the Girls I’ve Loved Before". He didn’t know how to dance but would pull insistently on my mom’s hand to lead her to the dance floor and do the cha-cha. He enjoyed life’s little luxuries—good food in some fancy restaurant, the occasional pleasure trip overseas with mom, high fidelity music from some expensive sound system he had bought. Even after his first stroke, Dad never stopped enjoying what life had to offer. One thing that actually astonished his doctors so much was the speed of his recovery. He could hardly talk and move half his body at the beginning of his illness but he undertook his rehabilitation with single-minded determination and sheer strength of will so that he was able to function normally in no time. Even in his last few weeks, when he was getting extremely weak, he would insist on moving about by himself—unbelieving that there are things he couldn’t possibly do.

I have been talking at length about Daddy and I’m now just finding it so strange to refer to someone like him, whose presence and charm could once fill a whole room, as a “was” instead of an “is”. The past Valentine’s was the first one he wasn’t able to give mommy flowers and that was already jarring enough. Now, I expect it will feel weird to come home every weekend and not see him in his blue swivel chair in front of the TV. I will be sad every time I leave on Sunday evenings and not be able to kiss him goodbye. As the family he left behind, we can grieve, regret, and move on but I am convinced that one thing we will not be able to do is to forget. For as Daddy’s children, we bear his imprint in each of us. Daddy can be seen in Angela’s snub nose and beautiful eyes; in Meg’s small, full lips and child-like grin; in Ernan’s dusky skin and husky, malambing, bolero voice; in Cathy’s cherubic cheeks and slim elegant feet; and as for me—I see Daddy when I look at my finger and toenails, when I find myself pouting in intense concentration, and when I become tigas-ulo and insist on getting my own way. But most of all, I think, I will see my father in me, my siblings, and my mom when we try to be more than what we can be, when we push the envelope, when we relish each second, and when we grab life by the throat and live it to its fullest, as he had done and had taught us to do.

Let us now say goodbye to a man who, at certain points in his life, was to us Chummy, Pare, Ponga, Barbs, Lolo, Tito, Darl, and Daddy.