Here’s a letter my dad posted as a comment on my previous blog a week ago. I’ve asked his permission to post it here as well. Kindly read on.
A Letter I’ll Write My Son, Jet, When I’m 60
Dear Jet,
I’d like to ask a favor. For my Birthday, Christmas, or Father’s Day, I don’t want another shirt. Or three pairs of socks. Or a bottle of whisky or brandy. Or rubber shoes.
Take a good look at me. My face has more wrinkles now. I’m getting old and these “things” don’t give me the joy that they used to. Do you want to make me happy, son? Stop giving me things. Instead, give me your presence.
Now I know you’re a busy man. Grown up and important. You’ve got a million things to do. You’ve got your own priorities. I understand, son. I really do. But once in awhile, do drop by or even just a text, and tell me you remember me.
I’ll be in ecstasy, if you bring me out for lunch (maski ako ang taya). Or bring me in any place you want — just the two of us (maski ako man giraray ang taya). Let’s talk about everything and anything. I’d like to laugh with you again. The same way we did when I used to bring you out, pasyar sa downtown maski mayong kuarta; when you were tiny enough that I could carry you in my arms when you slept through a movie; and when your favorite topic of conversation was about WHAT IS MOSS? and Cartoons and lots of questions. Oh Jet, I miss you so much.
I want you to know that every so often, I open your room and your cabinet. In it are your clothes, things. And in case you didn’t know, I still like looking at our old photo albums. In these old photos, I see you as a shy good looking child hiding behind your mother’s skirt. I can still vividly remember your picture taken during the Search for Ms. & Mr. Kiddy Garden. You were wearing a white tuxedo, though, I can’t remember know where I got the money, wheew, that’s P800 bucks jet. Hehehe. I see you blowing candles on your birthday cake. When you cry, I carried you in my arms and wipe the tears flowing down on your cheeks. Remember when you played in the monkey bar at the Manila Zoo? Oh your mommy and I and even your sister, nini, were so worried
and afraid when you fell but change it with laughter, when we you’re okay. Why we laughed? Well, because when you fell, your eyes were so big and rounded.
Reminiscence rush over me like a river. My heart swells with pride as I think of you. Oh, how proud I am that you’re my son.
But you know what, son? Looking back all these memoirs makes me feel old. Very old. I’m struck at how unforgiving time is. Yes, it flies. And time will continue to fly ever so swiftly, and one day, I will be gone.
But mark my words, Jet. Each day, in Heaven, I shall watch over you. My love will continue beyond the grave, beyond the boundaries of heaven and earth. My love for you will remain forever.
Son, I’m still here. With you. While I’m on planet earth, once in awhile, give me your presence. When you were 7 years old, you used to shout, “Daddy, I love you,” and instantly, I’d get a lump in my throat, my eyes would moisten, and my chest would be filled with warmth.
Jet, after all these years, you’re a grown up man now. But nothing has changed between us. Tell me those words again, “Daddy, I love you,” and instantly, I’d still get a lump in my throat, my eyes would still moisten, and my chest will still be filled with warmth.
Noy, let’s make an agreement: No matter how corny it gets, let’s not stop hugging each other. The older I am, the more I need those hugs. I don’t want a shirt. I want you, son, even if it’s just a few minutes of your time.
Love,
Dad
PS: Why did I write this Letter? Just to let you know, I’ll be 50 next year. I’m still 14 years away from 60. So why write this letter? To remind myself the most important things in life.
At the end of the day, I’m wealthy not because of the money in the bank but because of the love in my relationships. I’ll never be happy in life if I’m not happy in my family relationships.
I urge you to always put your family first. This is your most important wealth!
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Monday, November 8, 2010
untitled
A piece lifted from Mitch Albom’s “Have a Little Faith"
“when we spoke a few weeks ago, I asked you what you thought about your parents. Do you remember?”
Sort of, I say.
More laughter.
I asked you if you felt they were perfect, or if they needed improvement. And do you remember what you said?”
I freeze.
“You said they weren’t perfect, but. . .”
He nods at me. Go ahead. Speak.
But they don’t need improvement? I say.
“But they don’t need improvement,” he says. This is very insightful. Do you know why?”
No, I say.
More laughter.
“Because you are willing to accept people as they are. Nobody’s perfect. Not even Mom and Dad. That’s okay.”
Friday, November 5, 2010
Written 07.08.2010
I don’t like this feeling. I detest more what I think is happening.
I’ve been reading a lot of books lately and that should somehow help in my transition to the academic life. But more than helping, I feel that the books I’ve grown accustomed to reading makes it tasking for me to absorb the technical readings we are required to digest. Quite ironic, honestly speaking.
Of Thermal Mugs
Thermal mugs are time capsules. Or at least it serves the same purpose for a brief moment. Similar to time capsules, thermal mugs allow one to hold onto a moment and try to keep it as it is for as long as circumstances may allow.
Freshly made coffee is best enjoyed while still hot. Thermal mugs provide an opportunity for such. But like all fleeting moments, keeping things unchanged is something that can only be done briefly. Status quos are always meant to change.
A Prayer
Here’s a prayer taken from “The Pilgrimage.” These words echo the reason why I have this blog, the inspiration to make public the thoughts I have in private.
“Have pity on those who are fearful of taking up a pen, or a paintbrush, or an instrument, or a tool because they are afraid that someone has already done so better than they could, and who feel themselves to be unworthy to enter the marvelous mansion of art. But have even more pity on those, who, taken up the pen, or the paintbrush, or the instrument, or the tool, have turned inspiration into a paltry thing, and yet feel themselves to be better than others. Neither of these kind of people know thy law that says, ‘For there is nothing covered that will not be revealed, nor hidden that will not be known.’”
And now, I begin…
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