To My One and Only Popsicle

Dear Popsicle,

Happy father's day!

After almost 26 years of being your daughter, now I can honestly say that I'm truly blessed to have you as mine. God knows you’re not an easy man to live with. You’re moody, rude, and have got the shortest temper I know. But one thing about you Popsy—you’ve never made us doubt that always, always, you love us first.

My earliest memory of you is you giving me a piggyback ride around the house, pretending to be an old man and dropping me while I shrieked nonstop. I remember how you used to tickle my tummy with your whiskers while I begged you to stop though I didn’t really want you to.

As early as three or four, I remember how I used to drag you to bed with a book and badger you to read me a story. You’d pretend to be tired, but always, you’d give in. And you just didn’t read them. You acted them out, changing your voice, making the story more alive. And I’d lie there, more fascinated by you than the story itself. And though I’ve heard it so many times, you never failed to make each story fresh again. Because of that, you gave me my first dream —- to be a writer, a storyteller just like you.

At 5, you caught me stealing. You were so mad, you belted me. I hated you for a while but later that night, I heard you talking to mami. You were so guilty, I guess it pained you more than it did me. Bro and sis used to say that I’m a brat. But I didn’t mind. Cause every time you’d tell me that I’m your brat, it didn’t sound like such a bad thing.

Around 9, I became more aware of your fights with mami. Of the many nights your breath smelled of beer before you kissed me goodnight. You’d wake up, easily irate and shout at the maids for being too slow. Curses spewed so easily from your lips -- Tonto! Porbida! Peste! How easy it was to hate you then.

Around 12, I was torn between loving you and hating you. You were difficult, but then, even at your worst, you never, ever raised your hand to us. You’d shout and send us to our rooms, and in your temper, you’d hit the wall instead of us. One day, it actually dawned on you that your children were beginning to fear you. In fact, I wouldn’t come near you anymore if I knew you’ve had a taste of beer no matter how you’d call me out with my pet names. That was when you decided to do something about it. You pulled yourself out of it -— started attending AA, talking to a priest, went to counseling sessions with mami. It didn’t happen overnight but you were getting better. And when we asked mami what made you decide to stop, she simply said “You, his children. He was afraid he’d lose you.” I love you for that Pop.

As a teenager, I began to understand that you were a man tormented by broken dreams. Mami used to say that you dreamed too much but were too spoiled by your privileged childhood to actually work for them. You were born the crown prince of Medellin, and so have never learned the patience to serve. You were too lazy. Even the simplest chore, you’d assign to someone else, it drove us nuts. It still does now. But then, I’ve begun to understand you and perhaps forgive you a little.

At 16, you rebuilt your ties with us. Your temper and our fear were still there but we also knew that you were trying so that made it easier for all of us. You became my official driver, my cheerleader, and my staunchest defender. You drove me and picked me up on prom night when I failed to get myself a date with a car. You wouldn’t have let me go with one if I had anyway. You wanted to shout to the world when I won best debater and claimed that I was cheated when I lost the race for student council president. You actually strutted on stage every time you tied my medals it was almost embarrassing. And then my friends became your children too, and my enemies, yours.

At 17, I felt that you wanted me to take up a suitable pre-law course. I took up MassComm instead. You never pushed, though. And when I had my reports published, you were the first one to grab the paper.

At 19, your ceaseless smoking used to drive me out of the house. Finally, in rebellion, I stole one stick from your pack of Hope short and went to the roof and had my first long sniff. Now, every time I smoke my Marlboro Lights, it makes me think of you and that night. I don’t know how you’d react to that, Pop.

When I was 20, you made one of your dreams come true. You went home to Medellin and built mami her dream house by the sea with your own genius and sweat. I was so proud. And when I, your youngest, graduated from college, you moved there with her to retire. And there, I know, you’ve found your peace. Every time we come to visit, it always seems that you and mami are honeymooning again. It’s lovely to see you both so sweet and so happy. Both of you didn’t have it easy and it warms our hearts to see you working out a new life together. That’s how I truly understood that marriage is a commitment. That it’s not all about passion and romance. You both decided to love and made the choice to stick it out and that’s why, I believe, that the bond you have together is so strong. And that’s why I’m afraid that I’ll never be able to forge that bond with someone else. Or that I’d want to.

At 25, I came to a crossroad in my life. I decided to leave CannonCreek, my comfort zone of three years. I told you first because I knew you’d understand about dreams, about the restlessness that make my feet want to go places. Quietly, you asked me about my plans and you just nodded. I worried that mama will be worried about me. You told me not to and that if worse comes to worst, I could always come with you to Medellin and we’d fish for a living. You’ll even build me a boat you said, and amidst the tears, that made me laugh. And as we sat there on the porch in the dark, watching the city traffic with your arm slung around me and your cigarette’s smoke clouding the skies, I finally found the strength to write that resignation letter.

Oh, you’re far from perfect, Popsy, but you’re always there. And if I had the chance to live my life all over again, I’d still pick you and thank God for it.

I love you, Pop. I know you already know this but still I hope someday I’ll find the courage to show you this piece so you’ll know why.