"It's the heart that defines love in the family, not necessarily the presence"; these were the words that my mother often spoke of when I was but a toddler, yet by that time I had no understanding of the world. I didn't understand what she meant back then. My mind was still blunt.
For most of my life, my mother was the only one who's spent most time with me than any other person in the world. She has taught me and guided me with her pure wisdom and has taught me the basic moral values that any tad needs to be sufficed of. She was my very first teacher in life. You might be reading this now and ask about my father. Well, he's not really away or anything. He's just . . . gone; away, never to come back to us again.
When I was about four (4) years old, he used to come home from work and bring me a toy. He would only come home to us (in San Remigio) often because he worked here in the city. He worked at the Philippines National Airport in Mactan, Cebu. He worked as the Air Traffic controller back then.
My father was a simple kind of guy. He was very bashful (which I think is the reason why he worked in a secluded place such as his office in the radio control room). He was very generous, especially to his friends and relatives; my mother even told me that when father goes to visit his roots in Mindanao (GenSan), he would go there abundant and fully clothed, but by the time he comes back to cebu, he'd only be wearing just his shirt, his pants, and his pair of slippers, together with his bag emptied. He was very Religious. He was once part of a religious group called the "Knights of Columbus" and attended church masses regularly. He sincere to his faith in God.
The thing about him though is that he is very abusive with his health. He didn't care about his health and the wellness of his body and only thought of sustaining the supplication for the needs of the family. But what really affected most of his health (and ultimately ruined his life until now) was his abuse to his lungs; he was such a heavy smoker. He would smoke so much and he just won't stop to my mother's reprimands He was hard-headed in that aspect. I was four years old when he left us. He left us for good and would never to return to us ever again.
The last unforgettable memory of him that I could never forget was the scene in which he was already bed-ridden and very ill. There he laid and could barely speak (his mouth was covered with a respirator); he was so sick already from his Lung Cancer. I at once came close to him and he said to me: "Kid, you be strong. Keep your heads up and never cry for me or for any other reason. You smile and be happy always . . . ". Two days later, he died.
What he asked from me, I could not really do.What reason would (and/or should) I be happy of? Nothing. But at that time I never really felt much of the pain. As I grew older, the pain became more evident and obvious. Growing up without a father is hard. Happiness would be the least idea that I could ever think of. Good thing that faking is so easy to do yet deep inside, I've always longed for a father. Someone who would teach me how to play basketball or teach me how to ride a bike. Still, I've accepted it already. He's gone, and that's that. Albeit I hate to admit it but what else can I do about it? Crying or being bitter about it won't do any good. This was reality itself hitting me right in my face.I can smile though, but I could never be truly happy. I never will. A happy kiddo is not entirely a happy kiddo; a happy kiddo is a happy kiddo because he is happy, not just because he can smile.
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When I was about four (4) years old, he used to come home from work and bring me a toy. He would only come home to us (in San Remigio) often because he worked here in the city. He worked at the Philippines National Airport in Mactan, Cebu. He worked as the Air Traffic controller back then.
My father was a simple kind of guy. He was very bashful (which I think is the reason why he worked in a secluded place such as his office in the radio control room). He was very generous, especially to his friends and relatives; my mother even told me that when father goes to visit his roots in Mindanao (GenSan), he would go there abundant and fully clothed, but by the time he comes back to cebu, he'd only be wearing just his shirt, his pants, and his pair of slippers, together with his bag emptied. He was very Religious. He was once part of a religious group called the "Knights of Columbus" and attended church masses regularly. He sincere to his faith in God.
The thing about him though is that he is very abusive with his health. He didn't care about his health and the wellness of his body and only thought of sustaining the supplication for the needs of the family. But what really affected most of his health (and ultimately ruined his life until now) was his abuse to his lungs; he was such a heavy smoker. He would smoke so much and he just won't stop to my mother's reprimands He was hard-headed in that aspect. I was four years old when he left us. He left us for good and would never to return to us ever again.
The last unforgettable memory of him that I could never forget was the scene in which he was already bed-ridden and very ill. There he laid and could barely speak (his mouth was covered with a respirator); he was so sick already from his Lung Cancer. I at once came close to him and he said to me: "Kid, you be strong. Keep your heads up and never cry for me or for any other reason. You smile and be happy always . . . ". Two days later, he died.
What he asked from me, I could not really do.What reason would (and/or should) I be happy of? Nothing. But at that time I never really felt much of the pain. As I grew older, the pain became more evident and obvious. Growing up without a father is hard. Happiness would be the least idea that I could ever think of. Good thing that faking is so easy to do yet deep inside, I've always longed for a father. Someone who would teach me how to play basketball or teach me how to ride a bike. Still, I've accepted it already. He's gone, and that's that. Albeit I hate to admit it but what else can I do about it? Crying or being bitter about it won't do any good. This was reality itself hitting me right in my face.I can smile though, but I could never be truly happy. I never will. A happy kiddo is not entirely a happy kiddo; a happy kiddo is a happy kiddo because he is happy, not just because he can smile.
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