It’s been three years since you left us. I’ve been missing you a lot these days.
Today I scrolled through your Facebook profile, looking at old posts. Thank you for being so proud of me then.
I wish you could have seen me grow up a few more years. I bought my first refrigerator, dad. You used to buy me Cowhead milk every time I came home because you knew I loved that and never got to drink cold milk when I was on my own. I finally have one. I wish you could have celebrated the unboxing day with me.
Every Friday I pick up E from the dormitory. I think you would have found it cool that the daughter you used to pick up and wailed that she wanted to drop out of that school is now taking care of her little brother all by herself. Maybe you could pick us up or drop us off every month when we go back to the province, if you were still alive, if you were healthy. I miss sitting in your passenger seat, and stopovers, and trying to stay awake with you. I miss eating with you.
I ate your favorite noodles on your death anniversary, but I miss going to the Binondo one with you. I never really liked their siomai but I remember you always bought some so I ordered one this time, too. Recently I ate at a restaurant that sells sizzling ramen. Their noodles were so hot, for so long. I think you would have loved it.
There’s still so much I don’t know. I tried installing hooks for a curtain but managed to tear off plaster. I tried a telescopic rod that didn’t fit. I remember staring at the glass door thinking I wish I had a dad to teach me how to install curtains.
Your family is doing alright. Mom has a new rack for her plants and is more fashionable than any of your children. She has become a full tita in your absence. She misses the love of her life. Your eldest has a remote job with a Singaporean doctor, and your third daughter is upskilling herself, taking clients from all over, and helps pay the house bills. Your youngest daughter started clinics and your oldest son is graduating soon. Your youngest is living on his own in a dormitory now. Two of your daughters know how to drive now, and when they’re in the driver’s seat part of me misses you more because it feels like you should be there instead.
We’re doing alright, but I wish we didn’t need to be alright without you. I see your smiling face in old photographs and I miss seeing it live, and I can’t help but think it unfair that you are smiling like that with Jesus, maybe eating mami or steak and watching movies all night without us.
I wish I had hopeful words to end this letter with, but I don’t have them tonight. Tonight there’s just absence and grief and I will need to let myself sit with it.
Stitched 