eglantine days

I found this entry in the old blog and couldn’t help but smile. What I’d give to have my dad telling me to march back into the house to change my scandalously short skirt. :) / :(

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My father grew up in a family where the men were men and the women were ladies. His father was a judge and would never be caught without a suit, a hat and a baston (cane). His mother was a housewife who kept the household running smoothly.  The four sons were rough-housing bastards whom no one wanted to mess with since they had heavy fists and dirty mouths. I’ve heard time and again of stories of my father being (literally) chained to the bed in hopes of keeping him out of trouble. My father’s two sisters, though, couldn’t leave the house unless one of the brothers accompanied them. I remember my aunt telling me of how a Romeo tried to make moves on her only to disappear behind a wall of brothers and cousins who warned him off with tight smiles and threatening fists.

Most of the time it’s plain frustrating to deal with a father who disapproves of almost everything I say and do. It’s a battle for patience and understanding as I try to remind myself that he comes from a different era. Sometimes though, it just ends up a mix of frustration and amusement.

“Do you drink every night?” my dad asked.

I looked up from my conversation with my sister, a conversation that mostly consisted of complaints of how expensive liquor is nowadays.

“Well… Not every night. When I’m out, or sometimes when I come home from work. Or if I have someone over,” I replied.

My dad shook his head. “You know, you shouldn’t drink too much. Men don’t think highly of girls who drink a lot.”

My sister and I stared up at him wordlessly for a couple of beats, then I stood up and hugged my dad, laughing.

“You’re so charmingly old-fashioned, Daddy.”

“I’m serious!” he shouted, his shaggy eyebrows lowered in what was the beginning of a snit.

“We know. But times have changed, Papa. Her drinking is the last thing you should worry about,” my sister said.

“Not that you have to worry about anything at all,” I interjected hastily.

“I’m just saying…” he grumbled.

“I know, Papa,” I said soothingly. “And thank you. But don’t worry.”

But they can never help it, can they?

My father passed away recently. He was the first loved person I lost in life. Sometimes I have to fight the anger in having the person I love most be the first person I lose to death, but I’ve mostly accepted it for how it is.

I remember the night of my father’s death. I remember the sorrow and depression that made it so hard to even breathe. I remember signing so many documents that I could hardly even read through the tears that kept coming. I remember people buffeting me with questions from all sides till my head swam and my hands shook. I remember my best friend, for whom I am grateful and feel blessed to have, sitting quietly by my side late in the night, listening to me sob and rage.

It was a terrible experience for all of us and the following days after his passing were saddening and absolutely stressful. Losing a loved one is not a quiet affair. You don’t get to sit in a corner whilst everyone leaves you to your grief like you see in the movies. I spent most of my time smiling and easing other people’s pain. The need for solitude was something no one could seem to respect. Everyone’s well-meaning efforts turned into invasive gestures. My siblings and I have never lost someone so close to us and we were mostly adrift, not knowing that there were so many rules that one had to follow. Who made these rules? Who decreed that etiquette should still rule when you’ve lost someone so great? Losing someone should give you the right to waive all of this rubbish. People shouldn’t blame you if you decide to draw curtains and lock doors.

I thought I was over this already but obviously I still have a lot of anger in me about the days that followed my father’s passing. I think I’m mostly bitter about not having been able to mourn him as I wanted to. I had planned to post my eulogy but will do so instead on another day.

I’ve forgotten how cathartic the process of writing/typing things down can be.