Conversation Peace

It was my father's 9th death anniversary two days ago and I totally forgot about it until last night.

We were never close, my father and I. He worked as a ship captain and was away most of the time. When he came home for breaks in-between assignments we barely talked. We hardly did things together either.

Father kept mostly to himself. He didn't talk much and, as far as I can tell, he didn't really enjoy company. Not even his own family's. When he's not lounging in the living room watching basketball on TV or enjoying his music (The Platters was his favorite) by his lonesome -- bottle of beer in hand, cigarette in mouth -- he'd be busy doing little repairs on the house.

Occasionally he'd have me help him out with some chore. And every time it really did feel like a chore. Not the actual work itself but being with him. It was not enjoyable. At all. Even when we did not say a thing to each other.

All my life I felt a heaviness inside whenever I've had to deal with my father. Except this one time. It happened on an Easter Sunday. I had just come home from mass and I was listening to a CD of inspirational music when I felt like picking up the phone. I did and I dialed my father's number. I'd been living with my sister then and my dad and I haven't spoken with each other for two years.

He picked up the phone, I said hello, greeted him "Happy Easter" and asked how he was, he said he was fine, I told him that Tata, my elder sister, was in the hospital because of some tummy problem, he said he'd visit later that day, I told him it was great talking to him, he said he was happy I called, I bade him to take care of himself, he promised to, I said goodbye, he said goodbye, and we hung up. The entire call lasted less than 5 minutes.

I consider that the first real conversation that my father and I shared. It was also our last. He died from a slipping accident at home 6 days later.