Portrait of My Father

When I was growing up, my father was a hardass. He was strict, he always acted like he knew best, he always tried to tell my brothers and I what to do and the right way to do it. I resented it then; heck, what punk kid doesn't?

But time changes perspective. I see my father now, retired, his children all grown up... and I know that he never wanted to be a pain in our ass. He smiles now, he laughs with all his heart. He just wanted his kids to turn out right. He didn't want his kids to fuck up.

Today was my uncle's funeral. My father's kid brother died rather suddenly last week, and what killed me was watching the pain on his face as he said goodbye. When I was a kid, he couldn't be just an ordinary man, he had to be a father, an immovable pillar of morality for his children to strive for. Today, he was just a man, in pain, just like everyone else.

Mahal kita, Tatay.


Portrait of My Father, July 28, 2008

I knew you as a mountain of a man
in younger years - yieldless, unforgiving.
You steered with timeless, steady hands
our creasing blood. And yet the stone was living -
Your laughter shook the earth, your anger stilled;
We quaked and heeded, we rallied and we grew.
You raised us to succeed you. We fulfilled,
and from your mountaintop, your children flew.

Today, I watched your quiet agony
as mother, father, wife and brother, each
you kissed with fingers, blessed their ever-sleep;
Your whispered words abroad, an empty reach.
I knew it then, that even mountains weep.
And in that moment, you, at last, were free.