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My father died in a car accident in Saudi Arabia. I was only four then and clueless of what's really happening. I have a vague memory of people carrying a huge box into our house. Inside was a dead body. It was my father's. Or was it just a product of my strong imagination? The box. Did I really see that?
I have an indistinct scene inside my head, me standing behind the windows of our terrace, watching people inside our receiving area, dressing up a lifeless body. It was my father's. Have I really seen that or was it just a product of my imagination?
If not for the pictures of his wrecked pick-up car, if not for the photo album that we had on his wake and funeral, I will never know what happened in that year.
He died in November of 1981. How was our Christmas and New Year then? I have no idea.
Did I ask people around about my father's whereabout after that? I don't know and I don't think it is of importance now. But I do remember talking to him when I was alone inside my room, while I was growing up. I remember crying. I remember pouring my heart out.
And that, I am sure, was not my imagination. For I have done it many times and I did it again on Saturday night.
I was used to not having him around the same way that I got used to our busted wooden sliding door in our kitchen. I was used to pushing it hard to be able to close it. As long as it is serving its purpose, I said.
I understand that it's old. I can never do anything about it. Somehow it was okay to put lots of effort to push it so we could close it. I was so used to that busted door that I never thought of checking it out and see what was wrong with it. For me, it's just a busted door.
Then on Saturday, my uncle-- my father's brother, saw it. And with the help of my other uncle, they've fixed it with just a little push and a hammer. That simple.
The busted door got fixed.
Sure, we were happy. Although like what I've told you, for me it is just a door and I have lived with it for the longest time. Busted or not, I honestly didn't care.
But that day, seeing their act of kindness, seeing them fix it instead of seeing my father, had made me teary-eyed. All my life, it was the only instance that I've realized how it is to have no father. It was a depressing thought that I had to cry out inside one of the rooms that my father had built for us. Our home. The place where we were born.
I am blessed that a lot of people have stood by our family. Some stood as our father in their own little ways. I am grateful.
For every concern that people have shown us; for every hug that I get from my uncles, I felt I was their baby, too. I know they want the best for me just like they want the best for their own children.
The thing is, without asking me, I will do my thing and be the child that they want but I hope they won't compare their children's fate to someone else's fate-- my fate. I am not a gauge of success.
Be reminded that I was once a busted sliding door. And with the help of a hammer and a little push and pull, I was fixed.
For all those who have patiently guided me, THANK YOU. I believe The Father has sent angels to do that not just for me but for the family that was left behind.
Hope-- it could be the only thing that I have in my hands right now. But I know it's enough to make my father smile.
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I am Mae German. 34 years old. Born in Mangatarem, province of Pangasinan. I was taught and trained by Juan Dela Cruz, and I am currently being trained for more by Uncle Sam. Writing since the age of 12. Blogging since 2001. I keep a notebook and a pen in my bag, on my bedside table, and inside the bathroom. Misses a lot. Sometimes even my own voice. Loves to laugh. Sometimes even at myself. I am a work in progress. My ultimate dream is to be a SAHM. That is, if I am bound to have that chance in this lifetime... and I am.
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