family

A Letter To My Sister

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999472_10152547114278228_1945724526_nSo, it was my sister’s birthday the other day and since I could not be there in person, ocean dividing, I wrote her a letter. Last I heard, she replied back, I love you too.

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Every now and then, there is this person, who tells you straight, gives you the hell Mary speech, acts as if she is your mother, thinks that she is grown; well, she kind is but she is the baby. Someone who sees through you, listens and understands, cares and love you unconditionally, waists no time calling you up when she thinks your lipstick is the wrong color or your pants is wrinkled and gives you the props when warranted and/or unadulterated. This person who at the drop of an hat, jumps seas and heaven to smack whoever, well I never heard or seen her killing a fly, so she is excused, and come to your rescue at a minutes notice. Someone who is there for you through the thick and thin, through hell and high water who doesn’t judge, well she does sometimes but who cares?! Eat it or spit it, that’s her job, the person who actually have the cojones to put up with someone like me and scream hell straight that she is my sister.

Yeah, she is my sister alright, my bread pudding cake, putty tat and life full of jelly bean sister.

I love you sis with all the bones in my body, all the aches in my spine. Yeah, that love. I could not have asked for a better sister, a better person and I bet you, you could not ask for a better me either. Oops my bad, that was supposed to be your line, and if anyone asks me to trade you, I would tell that person to hit the beach and fast, if you know what I mean?!

We have been through seas, mountains, elephants, horses, pancakes long enough for a  ribbon to wrap around the globe seven times and make a beautiful bow but it is our story and my apologies for sparing you the details, well for now. In the meantime, try snooping around if you dare, you may get burned.

Life have shown us that there is a bound like no other then not even an earthquake or tornado can crack it. I often thank the Almighty and our parents for having “made” us who we are. Yes, I can’t complain. So, since today is your birthday and we are all spread out across this beautiful universe, here I am from the land of the birds to wish you a beautiful, blessed, warmest, loving and joyous birthday. I wish I was there for that promised pajama party but I am not, so a fantastic photo of the celebration would do just fine. Here is one to you babycake.

Happy Birthday oldest, younger sister. Love you. Muah!

A Letter To My Mother, Second Take!

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FlowerMom, I remember you having a mile-long list of things you wanted to realize but could not wait to hang your teacher’s baton to pursue them. You made plans to enjoy life, to breathe and live the world whenever time permitted. You were looking forward to retirement and could not wait.

Your dream was to travel the world, visit countries and see your girls whenever you felt like it, and for as long as you pleased. The plan was for you and Dad to do it the way retirees usually do.

You yearned to jump on board a big cruise liner, sport kaki shorts and Hawaii shirts, sunglasses, designer hat and cruise the world; hop on a plane and land in the nearest town, chronicle your latest adventures, take and share your many photos with us. You dreamed it all and were on track to do just that but it was not to be. The Almighty had a different script and your wishes were diverted, thrown off course.

Your husband first earthquake – he came down with not one but two and three strokes – came like a full force hurricane. It brushed his wits and for the avid reader that he has always been, it was an unintended prescription tantamount to a death sentence. The illness progressively ate up his brain and his physical and emotional behavior for a while; never mind how long but it was a while.

Locked blindly like a prisoner, it battered your body but did not take an ounce of your energy or soul; and like one good warrior, you soldiered on, catching the bus or taxi, whatever means of transportation to the hospital everyday, sometimes twice a day to visit your husband, to spoon feed your guy, your soul mate, your man.

Through it all, you tirelessly became his eyes and ears; his translator, his nurse, his companion in chief. You, the once delicate invulnerable flour in my Dad’s eye, metamorphosed into one-woman machine who (un)selfishly and meticulously lives by her very script of “God had other plans for me and I have accepted”, and no one dares say a word because you refused to hear it.

You could have commemorated your 53th wedding anniversary last week; yes, could have are the words but it was not there. I hoped to seeing you strolling down the aisle, flooded by your loved ones, hand in hand with your unselfishness, and his bashfulness and hearing the priest pronounce you “husband and wife” once again, but it was not to be.

I recall you wanting to celebrate a deux, fearful that he would not have any recollection or get too fidgety to even grace the event. Instead, it went by, like any other day. I did not call you purposely, so not to upset you nor remind you of the beautiful life you once had. So, I let it be.

I imagined you sitting in your bedroom, alone, at the tip of the bed, going through pictures, sobbing, reminiscing but that was just my imagination. I don’t know how it went for you because I did not dare ask you how the day went.

You have not talked about touring the world lately and I don’t believe you have stopped dreaming, nor accepted the fate that has been delineated for you either. Perhaps, beneath the seemingly stalwart veil, there is a glimpse of hope that you, one day, will be able to be that famous tourist you once longed for after all.

Your devotion to him, your irreplaceable love, transcended imagination. It was beyond belief. Yours was a bond that I will neither be able to mimic nor replicate but I observed it and am proud of.

Mom, I just don’t know how you did it. You were a locomotive, one woman Inc., your own superwoman. I can vehemently utter that I am jealous. Jealous of the sense that I wanted to be you but I am not. I will never be you; I will never be like you; I will not even pretend to be you, but your daughter I shall always be. You are one of a kind!  Thank you for being my Mom.

Happy Mother’s Day!

Note: This was originally written in 2009 but minor changes were made to incorporate my father’s passing last year.

A Letter To My Dad, Second Take!

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IMG_0153Hello dad,

It is me once again knocking, celebrating you in my own way.

I have no idea where you are, where He has taken you, what you are doing. Humm, for all I know you could be riding a bicycle or at the library, who knows but you?! Oh, how I wished you could read this one more letter but fate had it differently. Your carousel has stalled, the music stopped and the bell, no longer ringing.

I just wanted to tell you how much I love you, how much I miss you, our talks, your wisdom, your smarts, your brightness.

I miss being your child.

Dad, I miss running to you with my worries and hearing your thoughts whenever crucial decisions bothered me. I remember you sitting silently, listening with your left arm folded and slightly biting into your right thumb, your eyes closed, immersed in your thoughts… I don’t know what your were thinking about? I just  know that you never judged or preached but were always ready to give me some advice. They were free but at times, very expensive.

Our shared values are still with me. I embrace them. I treasure them. They ring on my ears nonstop.

Authoritarian you never were, kinder and gentler, judicious you were. It is from you that I learned what choice meant, what determination was and I carry the proud card in my wallet.

We never went fishing, we never played pool, we never played ball but we always went to The Game, Soccer that is. You would linger with the bigwigs and I, with the peeps, so I could yell my lungs out. Oh and I played the sports too just as you did, although not professional.

Occasionally, we would go to the bashes but you were too shy to be caught dancing. A point that makes me question where I got my dancing shoes from. I, on the other hand, have not found one dancing shoe that does not fit me. Someone should have perhaps, stack a ballerina moniker in my forehead.

You were smart and intelligent, a thought-out individual. You introduced me to books in your stuffed library, books of all sorts of shapes and colors and tastes. You infused in me that sense of conscientiousness and self-worth. It did not matter, you said, ignore the ignorant long enough and they will go away. No sense in fighting them. Oops, I like that!

You detested conflicts. It was not your forte. I never heard you complaining or arguing. I never saw you screaming or yelling at anyone. Perhaps, you should have bent some of your rules a bit so to give me a lesson or two regarding the “real” world. It is a jungle out there.

I never saw you but showing genuine love and deep respect to mom– your love for her was untainted, unadulterated, extraordinary. Your perpetual love affair made and still makes me burn with envy. I never heard you raising your voice or your hand on her and for that I could never thank you enough. The reason why she respected and loved you with such intensity of a incandescent light bulb. It showed with her constant presence at your beside even putting her own health at risk but she didn’t care. That’s her. She was a trooper who exerted a strength of a superwoman, undesirable magnetic force to the point of excess, at least to us but muscles she did not have, will she did. They say it is love. I really don’t know were she got it from but I want to be just like her when I grow up. Perhaps, you were otherwise somewhere else but that was a foreign elsewhere to both me and my sister.

You were not a blabber; you never were. You were actually a man of a few words. You barely shared your thoughts frustrating a few of us. We were often left to read in between the lines when you sat alone in the sofa, always with your eyes close, your hands going through your balding head while recklessly chewing on your nails. It was your thing, chewing on those nails. Geez, if they could talk, they would be telling stories or beg for mercy. But we knew better. You always spoke in metaphors; so, us girls were left to decode them.

It was your dry sarcastic sense of humor that made my funny side possible. Oh boy, did it ever?! You traveled the world over returning with stories that you shared at dinner. Oh, how I miss those moments! We would sit and talk about things. My mother was the butt of a lot of our jokes but she didn’t mind; it was all in good fun.

Long before email, FaceBook or Skype sucked us in, I had your letters. You wrote often and your letters were delightful. You always knew what to say and how to say it. You just knew how to satiate my anxious salivating soul. I enjoyed them then and do enjoy them now. The reason why still have some of them stacked away. But then, one beautiful day they stopped coming. They were no more. The letters were replaced by weekly phone calls and even those too, soon fizzled. The dreadful madness took over and replaced you with a new version of you. Yeah, I loved that new person too.

I wish you could see the way we talk today Dad. It is so instant now; with a click I could have seen and heard you. How cool is that? But the story is not to be. It ended a year ago today, when you finally succumbed to the madness and went to be with the Lord. I guess God needed you more. I know He is taking great care of him but…

Dad, perhaps you finally learned how to dance and is somewhere dancing the Macarena, oops, Gangnam Style or Harlem Shake or doing stand up at Comedy Club somewhere. I don’t know. I wish I had a mirror into it all but I don’t and it is just the way it is.

Once upon a time, I was your princess, your finicky little girl and your young tomboy. Today, I am your anguished daughter.

I so miss you. I miss talking to you. I miss our conversations. I miss our moments. I miss exchanging a few words with you. I miss hearing your sarcastic humor and calm voice, your good manners and your beautiful heart. I miss all of you but you are no longer with us. I can only commit to the memories and dream that one day you I see you again. I know better. I resort to just wishing.

Thank you for having been my dad. Thank you for having been our dad. Thank you for having been my mother’s husband. Thank you for having been our friend.

Your daughter

P.S. This letter was originally published on Father’s Day 2009 as my father’s health was in terrible shape but minor changes have been added, as we pay homage to him on one year anniversary of his death today. https://ludlumdrive.wordpress.com/2009/06/21/a-letter-to-my-daddy