Pa

My father turn 66 tomorrow. Must remember to call in the morning.

I think I got a lot from the father, if its personality we’re talking about. Well I should. He’s the only parent I could look up to during the first five years of my life – the formative years, they call it. He doesn’t talk much. We don’t talk much. Our conversations revolved around giving and clarifying instructions when I’m helping him out with whatever repair he’s doing or when I need him to help me with something.

He smokes a lot. Hope his preferred brand. I realized that when the was the Hope and Winston raffle and we had rolls of paper packs to fill out. We never really won. Not much luck with raffles.

He expresses things more with actions than words. A s a kid, you get to be more conscious of these things. The fact that he allows you to help means you’re not a distraction from work (so you’re really helping). Otherwise, he’d politely suggest other things you can do. He displays your ribbons, certificates, and medals as if it were something he’s proud of but he never tells you you did great or give you a hug or a firm hand shake. It was high school when I managed to process this piece of information. The biggest compliment I got was when he shouldered the family’s transportation expenses to attend my college graduation – him hating travelling and being close-fisted with money and all. That was quite something.

He’d scold you for wasting his paint or using his paint brush with you childish projects but he doesn’t really tell you to stop. He’ll make suggestions on how to use paint more efficiently and how to make sure the brush can still be used after your project. He explains how to remove paint stains and how the brush strokes should be so that the surface would look good after it dries.

He’d take you with him as his assistant – always a proud moment for me.

When you make his toe bleed with your attempts with the pedicure set, he doesn’t blame you. Sure he’d complain about the pain. But there’s no blame.

He takes his time to think about the things he needs to do before doing it. To a fault, I may have taken this one. The planning’s 70% of the time and actually doing things – 30%.

He’s too quiet. His answers limited to your questions. Free conversation’s not his thing – or mine. Sometimes I go on telling him stories that I’d assume family members would want to know.

He loves reading novels. Probably an escape from the not-so-eventful life in the rural coasts of our town. The longest conversation you can have with this guy’s discussing story plots and author/book reviews.

He’ll never tell or write that he loves you. He’ll never give you a hug or a direct compliment. He has his ways. When you figure him out, everything’s more meaningful.

In his quiet presence, you’ll find comforting company. From his room, you’d know what you mean to him. In his silence, you’d feel the words you wanted to hear.

Never through words.

 

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