My Daddy, My Immortal
Daddy turns 53 this Wednesday. Why does that fact reduce me to a whimpering, soppy fool? Oh, of old age and growing old. Aren’t those just the greatest fears of all?
I remember discernibly well how I turned misty three years back when Daddy hit the half a century mark. My first thoughts were…wow, a half-a-centurian in the house. Then, a year back, Mummy turned 50 too and… sigh…need I say it? We’re all getting old, old, old, and guess what? It’s beginning to show too.
Birthdays, like the bittersweet day it is (it gets more bitter than sweet as age catches up on you), kind of bring back certain memories of what used to be. To a certain extent it also reascertains what will always be, especially to sentimentalists like me.
There is always this perfect imagery in my head of Daddy and Mummy when I was just getting old enough to remember, toddling around in nothing but underwear and bashing lizards into pulp. They were the hero and heroine of those times gone by – saving me from countless possible mishaps. I was a wild jungle girl who climbed coconut trees and swung from one Angsana branch to another in the evenings, so go figure what kind of mess I always found myself in. There was even once when I fell from trying to jump from one window to another about a meter apart and lost my two front teeth (thanks to that, I have my two big chunks of bugs bunny teeth right now) and Mummy had the fortune (or misfortune) to be greeted by my bloody mouth, no pun intended, as she exited from the bathroom after her bath. She said I never shed a tear. That was one of the fondest stories she liked to tell our relatives at the dinner table.
Years and years have passed since then. Fast forward to today, that perfect vision still remains so clear in my head that I could see it just as soon as I close my eyes and remember Daddy as he was. The perfect father who always took us swimming at the nearby club, who taught us how to ride a bicycle and fly a kite, or took us fishing at the pond down the road, or just lounging at home, checking on our schoolwork and playing scrabble, or monopoly, or boggle or cards.
Daddy was the quiet character who despite his silence, created a strong aura of presence in my world. A man of few words, he was always one who chose to let his actions do the talking. He never told us he loved us, even right to this day, but we were certain that he did, through the way he did little, little things to let us know that he cares and that he is there.
Back when we were schooling, Daddy never missed a day of making breakfast for us, until his big babies left secondary school, spread their wings and flew from home. And he was always concerned about our education, and about the fact that we should build a good profile – because of his encouragement and support along with Mummy’s, I went into all sorts of activity in a bid to prove to the world that I had something to offer.
My days were so filled with activities it’s surprising that I even made it through, thinking back. There were hours and hours of swimming and gym training. There were athletics training after school, there were music and choir practices as well as piano classes, and numerous quizzes and competitions to enter, from history to math to biology and social sciences. All on top of maintaining a good result at school.
Being a teen back then came with heaps of growing pains, as could be expected … while Mummy nursed the occasional broken ego, broken dreams and even broken hearts, Daddy would silently observe at the background. He would say nothing, maybe because it wasn’t his nature to say anything. But Mummy would let us in on how he questioned her about our wellbeing so much that sometimes he wasn’t able to sleep at night. Today, thanks to a more matured mind, I’m able to have meaningful talks with Daddy about life and work, and practically anything under the sun.
So why am I fretting when it will be Daddy’s big day tomorrow? It’s hard to explain. Okay, it’s a twisted explanation if any, but my best bet would be that I cannot somehow reconcile with the fact that my first hero, even before Superman took center stage, has now sprouted a few white hairs on his head, and there is a slight hunch where his back used to be erect. Stubbornly, the earlier images remained: Daddy the tall, strong, invincible hero who could throw out any Boogieman under the bed. It’s funny how certain people in our lives create such a strong impression in the head that they are immortalized somehow. I’m certain that years and years from now, even when there’s nary a black hair left on daddy’s head, I will still look at him and see the man who walked me through 26 years of my life… the exact same person who taught me fishing and biking those years long gone.
My Daddy, my immortal. I know I’ve never said I love you, but it doesn’t mean I love you any less. Happy, Blessed 53rd Birthday, Dad!
Not so random thought of the day:
Can someone tell me how to rid of the ants coming in and out of my laptop? It’s like they’re building a nest in there. Don’t laugh. I’m dead stark serious. Drop me a mail if you have a solution, please.
Oh, and that certain someone who sent flowers to the wrong address (see my previous entry) simply insists that I write here that it was no mistake for his part. Harhar. So it wasn’t, my friend, so it wasn’t. We’ll leave the mystery of what had happened to the idle mind of Eunice when she has more free time on her hands.
