Shifting Gears

…that being the title of my memoir, a bit on me and my father whom I love very dearly, sweaty afternoons, laughter, tears and bicycle rides in tow.

Back when I lived in Iloilo during my elementary school years, my Papa and I never failed to enjoy our together time…until a civil case literaly wrecked havoc in my family and left my father a broken man. He died not long ago when I was but fourteen….but truth be told, I lost touch with him ever since I was twelve. Still I remember him, sprawled on the bed asleep one two many dawns ago in Villa….and to now think that he sleeps amongst the Never-Again-Be-Reawakened….well, some memories sting and burn more than others.

And why then, out of all memories, should I relive this very memory concerning my Papa?

I can only hope to answer.

I have always promised him in my heart that I would write of him and for him, the best I could possibly at a time. He has denied me many things—past and future graduations celebrating together, my debut (where I pictured him swaying me to a Love Me Do by the Beatles), and the thought of being turned over to the man I love on my wedding day. I hurt terribly at such thoughts and yet I came across these thoughts…

….shouldn’t it also hurt for a father not to be with his one and only Pudding (the nickname he gave me)?

…..doesn’t he still have plans for me and stories to tell that never again will see the light of this world’s day?

…..won’t he really disappear if I let go of him without a fight….silently….?

I want to believe that he still is and always will be…there.

Because although I want clobber him with my very fists…

I can’t.

I just can’t.

And love still on its own, is another matter.

And because the love outweighs the hurt, I let the love stay…

….to let me write of him and how I feel…

…..to tell him that this memoir is for him.

I just wish he could hear me now…

….not with cries and wails, but with my pen…

…resounding with the passion of a child waiting to come home…

…………………………………and at the right time, it will happen…

I am just a child, baring my soul, prone to ridicule and criticism….

….and yet like I child….I couldn’t care less about it…

The pen is my passport to Him.