Every father is a hero to his son. He is the protector of the house, the caregiver of both his wife and children, the hunter who brings home the bacon every month. He is the one who has all the solutions to the problems in this world. He is the one who uncomplicates things.
In my eyes, Dad is not only the typical Chinese revered figure. In fact, he is a semi-god. One who looks imposing on the outside. Someone you go to only when you have a problem (no it should be a big problem you can’t solve). Someone you worship secretly but am afraid to pour out your inner most feelings to.
Dad was the one who taught me how to ride a bicycle…the hard way. He removed the two back supporting wheels and me, despite my persistent wails, somehow found my momentum on the two-wheeler. Perhaps it was in fear of the sight of the spanner he held in his hand.
Dad was the one who helped me with all my technical projects and art pieces during secondary school days. I remember those times when he would be doing some filing for those wooden or plastic pieces over the wooden bench in the backyard. And the other times when he would do some cosmetic surgery to rescue my damaged drawings and paintings. Thanks to Dad’s painstaking efforts, I aced through both subjects. I was lousy with my hands. It would have been so different had I been given the piano or a musical piece.
Dad was the one who beamed with so much joy after I graduated from varsity. It was as if I had fulfilled his incomplete dream. In his later years, when we became closer, he told me his regret – not having studied enough. I should have encouraged him to re-hit the books then.
I gave Dad a nickname – Estrada. To me, he really looked like the deposed Filipino leader. Dad only passed one comment “I’m more good looking than Estrada.” This I agree.
Dad was the one who showed me the true spirit of mankind. His unparalled willpower to live on and long-drawn battle with cancer have taught me lessons no textbooks could have. He described this scene to me when he was in ICU – the scene of him having already crossed three quarters to the other side of the world. But he heard a voice calling him to return. And he did. Weak as he was, he was determined to regain his strength. Even the doctors hailed it a miracle for him to pull through. He was a survivor, someone who did not want to be controlled by destiny.
Dad was the one who climbed the Great Wall of China and toured the Summer Palace with me. I will forever remember that trip. It was our last family trip. Everytime I relook at the photo of Dad in the rickshaw which I took at the Beijing hutong, I think of the towkay compliment I paid Dad. He smiled.
Shanghai and Perth were the next two destinations on our itinerary. But it was a pity Dad was no longer in good health to travel.
Dad was the one who gave me his wardrobe of clothes. Bell bottoms, flowery shirts, two suits…He was so proud of them all and knew that retro would make a big comeback. He was right.
Dad was the one who called everytime there was a charity show on TV. His principle was simple – though we may not be very rich, we should still try our best to help the less unfortunate. I will.
Dad was the one who clapped with so much pride at Mediacorp Studios last May when I took part in my very first public competition. Though he was already quite ill by then, he cheered me on from the audience seats. He’s my dad. I wish I could have run forward to hug him then.
Dad was the one who taught me to cherish family ties and relationships. He was able to do this so well that standing next to him, I became a natural pale shadow.
Dad was the one who listened with genuine interest when I shared with him my desire to start my own business. Relating his own experience, he was prepared to help me out. I was touched.
Dad was the one who extolled the many benefits of aloe vera. It used to be both father and son who were hooked on this miracle plant with all its healing properties. Now it’s only the son.
Dad was the one who spent hours with me cleaning the Star Wars figurines and matchbox cars after learning that my old toys stashed in the cupboards were now worth a significant sum. The only difference is while the Star Wars figurines and matchbox cars now grace the showcases, Dad’s no longer around to admire them…
Whatever I had to do, I know I would not have done it with the manly certainty of dad. I could not have protected my home and my family in quite the same manner that he had protected his home and family. I wasn’t like him. But with all my heart and good intents, I wanted to be like him. This was the dilemma I faced when I was thrust into the unfamiliar position as head of the family overnight. It was not a position I was groomed for, neither was it one I hankered for.
I have not been happy ever since Dad left. Outwardly, I’m always smiling. A smile is perhaps the best of all disguises. But inwardly, it’s a different feeling. It’s a facade which I have been putting up ever since – a facade of being strong, unaffected and capable. But I know very well what my report card is.
I really miss my dad. I miss his rhythmic snoring patterns which I have grown used to. I miss his gentle strength. I miss his affable character. I miss his physical presence. I miss his stories about catching spiders and fishes after school. I miss holding his hand. I miss our family dinners. I miss his love, care and concern.
Today is Dad’s first death anniversary. This is the sonnet I wrote to Dad. Dad, I love you.
Regret’s written on faces of us both
Courage we lack to say what we want to
Feelings we keep only to ourselves
Let us connect. Erase that one regret
Though you do not say it out, I know Pa
Yes…you truly love me with all your heart
Though I do not tell it straight to you Pa
I love you for the father that you are
The heart’s love and fondness are memories
of space and time before seventh july
of the bond we share as father and son
starting from the day you gave me my life
Although the Pa I love has bid goodbye
Feelings I have for you shall never die
July 25th 2007 Posted to
memory
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