Father
He was a police officer. My love for writing starts with him. While sent to a police training in Negros in the early 80’s, he gifted me with a book about writing. Young as I was, I also rummaged through his things and found this book about police correspondence. He also lets me clean his service revolver, a snub nose 38, chamber empty, of course. I oiled it and polished it. Guns and books, that’s how I know my father. He was in his 70’s when my mother passed away. It broke his heart. I was already an activist. Perhaps a little animosity existed between us because of that. But he used my talent at letters by having me edit volumes of his affidavits and other correspondences. He honed me into it. It built up my philosophy of the human condition, to borrow Hannah Arendt’s terms. There, I saw the evil humans do to each other. Dostoevsky came a bit later. I was already living with my family in Europe when we conversed in real time, thanks to the evolution of technology. There was also a downside to this. Since it was easy to connect with each other, I also witnessed my father fighting for his life at the hospital. Naive as I was, I had this childish fantasy that our parents will stay with us in life as we found them as we grew up. Hard but valuable lesson it was. So, my wife and I had this eventuality planned out. It was my idea to buried along with a tree, so all the stardust in me continues if the tree lives. I already have this special affection for trees developed a long time ago. Many times I witnessed human remains exhumed and to me they look ugly. Why not continue life transformed into another being such as a tree. While walking my dog, I saw the remains of a sawed tree. I approached it and started to count the rings which are said to represent the number of years it lived. The number was 38. That for me was mature enough if converted to human years. Unlike my mother, I did not go home when they buried him. Not witnessing that, he will always stay alive in my thoughts. Not quite, though, as we went for vacation some years later, I had the opportunity to visit my parents’ final resting place. I just expressed what came out of my mind. There it was before us their stone graves. Along with my younger brother, we prayed. I just expressed what came out of my mind. I remembered I told my father once that he shouldn’t make an issue of me being the fruit that falls away from the tree. I have also my inherent right to make a dent in my existence. I may not follow a straight path, but I enjoyed getting lost as I walked, like I did the first time in Venice, Italy. Nobody will ever miss San Marco however one goes around the sestieri (districts). Getting lost is nothing new to me. I found my way home getting lost many times along the way. And arriving feels like redemption. Papa Boy would have been 86 had he continued. It was just a piece of cake for my mother-in-law who passed away at 92 gunning for a hundred until her organs failed her.
I remembered telling my father once that he shouldn’t make an issue of me being the fruit that falls far from the tree. I have an inherent right to make a dent in my own existence. I may not follow a straight path, but I enjoy getting lost as I walk, much as I did during my first time in Venice. No one can truly miss San Marco, no matter how much they wander the sestieri (districts). Getting lost is nothing new to me; I have found my way home by losing my way many times over. Each arrival feels like redemption.
Papa Boy would have been 86 today. It would have been a piece of cake for him, considering my mother-in-law lived to 92, gunning for a hundred until her organs finally failed her.
And yet, as I stand here now, a writer born of a policeman’s manual and a polished revolver—I realize that every “lost” turn I took only led me back to his roots. I am the fruit that fell far, only to realize the soil that nourished me was his all along. The tree may fall, and the rings may stop at 38 or 86, but the stardust remains. I have found my way home, Papa. The chamber is empty, the polished steel is still, and finally, the correspondence is complete.
