"Whenever I would come home every Saturday from my boarding house, I would find my father looking out the terrace, ready to open the gate for me. Most of the time, however, his efforts went unnoticed."
They said I was favorite because I looked like him. But I was never close to him. Whenever he was around, I hardly noticed him. Once every year, he come home to stay for only a week or two. It didn't matter to me hen.
My father is a seaman. A choice not of his own. My mother would always tell us that she forced my father "to sail away" because she longed for abundant life and security. My father wanted a simple life. To my mother, however, a simple life held no secure future for us children. Consequently, we grew up without him.
Talking About Him
- Once I was still in grade school, our teacher ask us to write a short essay about our fathers - describe them, tell about our fondest moments with them, and what they mean to us. I could not right anything. I hardly knew the feeling of having a father at home. I had not experienced the thrill of a father playing with us or the intimacy that could develop in a father-child relationship.
- Whenever he was miles away from us, my mother would always remind us to write him. As your girls, my older sister and I never had genuine interest in writing him. My mother would tell us that our father's situation was miserable, that he was tremendously lonely in the midst of the seas, and that our letters would bring immeasurable joy to him. I never thought he was lonely out there. The pictures he regularly sent us, taken in historic places and beautiful spots, showed him smiling widely. He seems to be very happy.
- My letters to my father were never intimate. It would usually begin with a formal "How are you? I hope you are fine like us." And it would always end up reminding him about the walking dolls and chocolates he would bring when he came home. I never told him what am I doing at school, the name of my new playmate, or how I had bruises when my older sister made me ride in a bicycle - they would not interest them at all. That was what I thought then.
- An accident while at work triggered to decide to quit from his work for eight years. He finally came home to stay. His presence at hoe is not significantly felt. That was what I believed. Being naturaly silent person, he would not talk so much. He'd sit in a corner and read paper and fix something with his tools.
- I never tried reaching out to him because he was not that significant to me. That was before I knew his sacrifices, his pain, his sorrows.
- Once when my father became drunk after an occasional drink session, I heard him tell his friends the loneliness he felt while at sea; the almost flavorless frozen food; the emotional torture of missing his family especially the little kids he left aty home, the family that he could see at pictures, the family he really never wanted to leave behind; the joy of a single letter from home brought him; the inexpressive pain upon recieving the news that his youngest chikd - an only son - had passed away. I heard all those grievances directly from his mouth, but I never took them to heart. Those just bubbles from drunken lips, I thought.
- Still, I continue aloof to my father. His forced absence of eight years seemed to have built a permanent wall between us.
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