Today, we your children will bury your body 6-feet under in a cemetery plot beside Inang’s body or whatever the last 16 years have turned it into. I just find it strange to bury and leave behind a beloved someone buried in dirt, never to be seen or touched again.
But I will not forget. You made sure I didn’t.
Whenever I see a jeepney. You’ve driven one to earn a living. I was too young to remember. Either that or we weren’t born yet. But you told us many kwentong jeepneys. I will remember.
Whenever I see a taxi cab. This, too, was your source of income after the jeepney. A promotion. An upgrade. Words to that effect. Those career moves drove you into losing one of your kidneys in 1995. I will remember.
Whenever I eat watermelons. Kuya Boy and I fought over one which ended in a watermelon throwing contest. We both lost ending up on our bellies to receive a pair of broom-stick spanks each. I will remember.
Whenever I see the beach. One summer day in Olongapo where we usually spend summer in the house of our aunts, Dà Viring and Dà Sayong to help out in the grocery store, you fetched us, Fred and me -your twins, in your cab and brought us to Kale beach. That was one fine picnic day -just the three of us -engraved in the happy moments sector of my brain’s hard drive. I will remember.
Whenever I hear a politician making a speech. In grade 3, I ran for a seat in the Student Council. I was up against two students whose mothers were teachers of the same school. You drafted my campaign speech full of promises I could never keep. Perhaps you knew what politicians were made of. I won convincingly. The school was never the same again -for better or for worse is another story. Twenty years later, I was made its guest speaker. I wrote my own speech. I will remember.
Whenever I see light. You were the electrician at home. Subconsciously, this must have inspired me to do the lighting thing I do now. You were also the plumber, the gardener, the carpenter. You were the my Handy Man in James Taylor’s song. I will remember.
Whenever I hear mass. And I hear mass everyday. The Holy Eucharist reminds me that you shared in the Lord’s sacrifice: as a jeepney and cab driver trying to hold that trip to the bathroom before reaching your passengers’ destination, as a farmer never minding the burning of your skin under the sun -if only to be a good husband and a good father to your family. I will remember.
Whenever I eat rice. You were a farmer all your life. You made sure we’d understand how hard it is to be one by making us plant and harvest with farmers during off-school days. We dried palay grains harvested during the wet season on concrete roads and on the school open basketball courts. And when the dark clouds appear, we’d rush to rake and shovel to sack them back in. We were little farmers, fast and furious. As a young Beatles fan, I didn’t fancy those days. Now, I see gold in every grain I see. Now I appreciate every bit of lesson there was to learn. I will remember.
Goodbye, Tatang. No more looking forward to movies together. Or going to the beach together. My eyes will not see you anymore. My hands will not touch yours anymore. But the unseen and the untouched can be more powerful than what is seen or touched. This family you’ve left behind, you’ve left behind solidly together. You and Inang were the loving catalyst that united and will keep uniting us. We will remember. We will love. Always.
Goodbye, Tatang. I love you.
