WHEN I was little, my father would visit me in school twice a year and treat me to lunch. He would wait for dismissal and sit somewhere with his legs crossed. We would buy donuts and ice cream afterwards and eat them under the scorching heat of the sun while he talks about current events.
Sometimes, we would go further from the school. We would go to Gaston Park and he would watch me get scratches from playing under the monkey bars and from intentionally jumping off from the swing after four strong to and fro.
There were years he would fail to visit me and this was while I was growing up. He did not see me in my prom dress (not that he would be interested in it), he was not in my high school graduation, nor did he see me win a spelling bee contest in the nationals. He was not around when I graduated from college.
These were some of the moments he regretted, he would later confess. Understand that my dad was a very discreet and an anti-social person. He preferred comfort to anything and anyone else.
It may sound as if my dad was irresponsible. But I now understand what it is like to prioritize your well being above anything else. I know that even though he was miles away and it would take a couple of years before I can break the good news to him, he would always be proud of my achievements.
When I became a reporter and my story would be in the front page, he would cut my articles and compile my stories, and show them to his friends and neighbors. As the family’s political animal, my dad would sometimes shoot me a message telling me his opinion on a certain story I wrote.
When Duterte ran for the Presidency, he sent me a list of achievements he can recall from the news implying that he deemed this guy worthy of the position.
My dad liked talking to me all the time. He would invite me over for a bucket of beer, or call me during the night to talk about Steve Jobs and why I should buy an iPhone instead of an ordinary phone.
When I traded the newsroom for the corporate world, my dad was extremely sad. He would phone me on weekends to convince me to go back to being a journalist and to remind me how noble the job is.
My dad was old and frail but his obstinacy always cracked me up. He never listened to anyone and he would go ahead and eat anything he wanted. Even with Arthritis, my dad would still willingly wolf seafood and goat meat.
He never censored anything from me. He initiated open discussions on death and life, and saw the end of life as a beginning of something else. He was a very cynical man who had a sarcastic tongue ready to strike anyone who hesitated to use his or her brains. I came to the door always prepared for whatever topic he would throw at me. And most of the time, I was caught off-guard.
Today marks one year after his death. He is the most notorious critic I have ever known. Every word he uttered changed the course of my life.
I continue his tradition of clipping my stories and drinking a bucket of beer before I write or read the newspaper at night. Dad, you are missed.