Originally written in July 2020.
After almost two decades, I finally met my father again.
One gloomy Sunday, I found myself in a small dimly lit room in Manila.
Empty bottles of beer, scrunched up bags of chips, and leftover Tetrapaks of juice scattered around. At the end of the room was a lone closed casket. No sign. No flowers. No one around.
We went to the small funeral parlor's office and saw an attendant in house clothes. She suggested that we open the casket to identify who was in it and if it was who we were looking for. I volunteered. I stepped closer, lifted the lid.
It was indeed papa.
Not quite the reunion I pictured a few times in the past years. Though I never imagined that it would be filled with hugs and kisses either.
My father had passed the day before with his dog by his side.
We came back to bring flowers and met one of our cousins who spent the most time with papa before his passing. He brought papa's pet dog along with him.
We also met some neighbors and some of his friends from the neighborhood. This was his only day for viewing as his remains would be immediately transported back to his hometown in Bataan. We didn't expect much visitors either because Manila was on lockdown even then.
I didn't really expect to see my father again after everything our family has been through. At least, not this soon. Though I had hoped to let him meet whoever I'd marry someday, out of respect. My family has long healed from the pains of our past. But that doesn't mean that we are spared from confronting what we left behind when we had to move forward in life.
This part of me that I've buried deep and ignored for years has resurfaced in the most unexpected of ways. I believe taking pictures is an act of acknowledging what exists. And this is my way of coming to terms with it. To meet my father again. And accepting that he is an inseparable part of who I am.
Life with papa was very, very difficult. Even as a kid, I was relieved that mama finally had the courage to get out of the relationship.
He wasn't the best husband nor was he the best father either. My mama had to carry the weight of that role. But the roots of my love for photography and music trace back only to him.
So i'd like to think that even if we have only few good memories of our papa, the best parts of him at least live on with me and my siblings.
Many years after my parents violently separated, papa turned to checking out my social media pages for updates. At the height of my Tegan and Sara fangirling as a half-blonde teenager in college, I tried learning the guitar. I guess he saw my terrible cover on Tumblr so he sent this yellow telecaster copy that he named 'Blondie'. He also sent me his old Nikon SLR that he always forbid me to touch or play with when I was younger. For Christmas one year, he passed it to me.
When he died and we got ahold of his belongings, I was quick to check his wallet for two things I knew that would be in it: band aid and guitar picks.
Two things you always have to be prepared for in life-- in case you get hurt and when you just need to bust out a riff.