It's my father's birthday today, and I forgot.I felt guilty, not because I don't care; I trully care, but my mind isn't an expert calendar and reminder. The worst time it broke down was when I forgot how old I was.
Forgetting papa's birthday isn't new to me; All my love ones shared the same experience one time or another. But my mind is good in remembering experiences, emotions, smell, sound and even the slightest detail of an event I can only remember.
The best time with my father was the time he can barely remember at all: The time he got drunk. It was the time he opened his life vulnerably to me. Being a father to two young boys, my father would show authority above all else. He was a short-tempered mild-mannered desciplinarian with the wisdom of a philosopher. I looked up at him like the way I looked up at the Rizal's statue at school: neck-hurting and eye-blinding realization. He was superior.
Then I went to college. I learned his mistakes. I've seen his imperfectness. I saw the human that he is. I remember that he would show up in dorm one day extracting what's left in his wallet so I could have a bit of an extra allowance. He was dismayed with what he gave. An emotion slipped out on the look of his face. I comforted him with the biggest thanks I can offer. I began working part-time after that day.
So what of the drunkness? Well it was one of those days I hated most. It was sembreak and I was at home doing nothing. Mama asked me to wait for papa since he would surely come home drunk from a party at work. I waited until 1am.
Then he came with the smell of vomit and beer. He was following zigzag footsteps. He sat down at the couch, unbuttoned his polo and lazily went to sleep. I looked at his state like before: I hated beer for it. Then he suddenly stood up and ran for the restroom with the cheeks all bloated and eye popping trying not to be sick. He released what was left of his meal in the restroom.
I didn't follow and waited instead. The restroom routine took longer than usual. I knocked at the door and was greeted silently by groans and puking sounds. I opened the door and
saw him embracing the bowl.
I cleaned him. He stood up and sat down in front of where I once sat. He was smiling and I followed him annoyingly. Then he talked to me in one of the best memorable stories of his/my life. A memory hidden beneath the superior heart.
He said that my college life isn't hard enough. He told of stories about his youth trying drugs, being stupid, being caught by the police since he was hanging out with rich kids: He pitied his childhood being a son of a carpenter. He told me that mama is the best thing that ever happened to him, that mama is smarter than him. He said that he tries hard to be a father. He was pleading that I make things better for myself. I was crying and he was smiling lost between memories and alcohol.
He stood up, patted my left shoulder stronger than usual and went upstairs to sleep, leaving me lost in self-realization.
He woke up the next day remembering nothing of the night before.
I woke up the next day loving him more.
Happy Birthday Pa!
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