My father's letters arrived from the Philippines with illegible words sprawled across hallmark cards. he always ended up writing more then he anticipated, obvious because the pages were always out of order. they told of his years in the province as a guerilla fighter - highlights of his life because our time together, or lack thereof, did not allow for stories over the dinner table. his words were always heartbreakingly poetic,
Isabella of my dreams, he'd greet me in his salutations. he always used the names that no one called me and when I was younger. that was the most special part. The letters used to come more frequently, as did the phone calls, but those stopped too. funny because when I was little I was always eager to hear from him, this mysterious figure in my life.
"Dad" and its synonyms have always seemed foreign to my tongue. it triggers no sentimental value in my heart. this is not to say that i'm left with some hollowness inside of me. i did not struggle with his absence, instead I was shaped by it. That space in a little girls heart that daddy's are supposed to occupy was never an issue because I was fortunate enough to have a family that played that role for me. I was forced to learn lessons that he never could have taught me. no better, no worse, just different. In that sense, his absence carries the same value to me as my mother's presence, so when asked if I have found it in me to forgive him (the question plaguing my mind as of late), I have no answer. his absence has never been a matter of forgiveness, rather a fact.
