Every day, he greets me with his unfading smile. He even inspires me to do well for feats. It has been my habit to talk to him whenever I’m alone, anxious and tired. He is one of my sources of strength. I love this gentleman so much. His words are still emotionally compelling in the way they always touch my heightened feelings.
It was Friday when everything in our town house was already prepared for my brother’s birthday bash. My mother cooked our all-time favorite “ham and chicken casserole” and other requested viands. The visitors were coming and everyone was celebrating that special day in our family. Afterwards, someone gave a buzz and my mom answered the call from the telephone. In just a blink of an eye, the atmosphere in the four-cornered house turned into complete taciturnity. My mother was stunned – could not even utter a single tone. My father, who was on his way to our home from work, was rushed into the hospital. Instead of celebrating my brother’s birthday, my mother immediately went to the hospital. We were all worried.
My father stayed in the hospital for a couple of months. The doctor said he had sudden rupture of blood vessels in his brain. He could not speak. He could not move. And the worst of all, we could not see his remarkable smile. What we were seeing was a man covered with pain and anguish. I know he was suffering inside and I could feel that extreme anxiety down my spine.
My father was my mentor. He taught me a lot of things. He wanted me to become a doctor but he saw I was into visual arts. I used to paint and draw and even told him I wanted to be a famous painter like Francois Boucher. We even had an argument when he did not allow me to pursue my dream. He was too strict. He wanted me to follow my uncle’s footsteps. If happened, I’ll be the second licensed doctor in our family. But when I celebrated my 12th birthday, I received a special gift from him – oil pastels and a charcoal pencil with a note, “Keep it up, Son.” Then I asked him, “Where’s the sketch pad, Dad?”
Now that my mentor was bed-ridden staring in one direction, I could not help but cry when memories tended to squeeze my heart. Praying was a virtue. We were still hoping that someday he’d be able to recover. We had to be strong so he would feel that we were still holding on his breath and not giving him up.
Day after day, his condition was getting worse. He started to experience death agonies where we all thought it would be the end of his pilgrimage in this life. Christmas arrived but we never felt the spirit of it. The New Year passed by but did not recognize the thought of having a new life. Our minds were all attached to my father’s unpredictable condition. All we wanted was a complete family spending quality time and sharing our laughter with each other.
While everyone was sleeping on a couch in my father’s hospital room, I showed to him my latest artwork. I drew our whole family. Filled with bright colors, the drawing displayed us eating all together on a round table – having fun and sharing our stories.
“Daddy, can you hear me?” I asked with a subtle voice. Still, there was no response. I shrugged. I reached his hand and uttered, “I fixed your things in the office. Everyone’s missing you, Dad.” Then, I felt a warm hand on my back. It was my mother and she embraced me so tight. In the wee hours, my father passed away. A single tear in his eye was the only thing left to us. Even though it was absolutely hard, we should accept God’s final decision. It was time to bid farewell to the most special man in my life. My father had suffered so much and it was certainly the time for him to rest at the Great Blue Yonder.
Now that it is already seven years from that dreadful day, his presence is still living in our nostalgia. With his smile on his portrait hung on our wall, quiet, gentle and patient waves are always washing me. I know he is beside me, always and forever.
Shelf Esteem 