Legend has it that the world freezes over in the winter, because the daughter of the Goddess of Harvest must descend to the Underworld.
The Goddess of Harvest, in her loneliness and misery, wills everything that is green and living to wilt and die and turn stone cold.
Upon reading this story for the first time as a third grader, my imagination was captured, though not so much my emotional connect.
At that age, what little I knew about being separated from my parents was seeing my dad off at the pier every month, where he would travel to different provinces to check on my grandfather’s business.
Being separated meant going to school every morning but returning home every evening with a delicious meal on the table and lively conversations with my family.
I grew up in a warm and beautiful home.
At that time, it didn’t cross my mind to ever want to leave, even in the distant future.
Although I inherited my dad’s spirit of adventure, my love for travel was limited to a couple of weeks at most.
Always a round trip ticket, always knowing when I’d go back home.
But three years ago, I had an opportunity of a lifetime to live and work in Dubai.
Because the money in my pocket when I left was not enough to purchase a return ticket, in order for me to go back home, I needed to survive, work and save.
If I were completely honest with myself, it shouldn’t have taken me 3 years.
I let life pass me by.
Like Persephone in Greek Mythology, I was slowly lulled into a false sense of security that detached me, unconsciously, from the people I loved and left behind.
And so I myself was surprised by the overwhelming sadness I felt on the days leading up to my flight back to Dubai.
My chest would grow heavy, my heart would crawl up to my throat and tears would start to fall, first in big drops until finally, an endless ocean.
I didn’t experience the same mysterious sadness the first time I left home.
I remember it, clear as day, when my dad hailed a cab for me, loaded my bags at the trunk and asked if I could drop him off at his suki sari-sari store to buy some cigarettes.
Maybe it was just an excuse to spend a few more minutes with me.
When we said goodbye, neither of us cried, even though we did not yet know when we would see each other again.
But there was a lump in my throat, a thick and heavy lump which I swallowed with the high hopes of a much better and brighter future abroad.
Later at the airport, while waiting for my flight to board, my dad confessed that he ended up crying soon after I left.
Again that giant lump rose up. I quickly put on my darkest sunglasses to hide the tears of guilt.
Was I about to make the biggest mistake of my life?
Was I abandoning the one person who never abandoned me (and not for any lack of chances)?
I didn’t have time to wallow on the subject.
I had over 20 hours of traveling ahead, including two layovers in Davao and Singapore, and I couldn’t afford to miss any one of those 3 connecting flights.
The next 3 years were nothing short of eventful, but just like that day I first left, I alllowed myself to be pulled from all directions except one — the sadness, the guilt of leaving.
When I arrived in Cebu last February 6, I all but jumped out of the plane to see my dad.
And although he looked happier and in many ways better than the sad reclusive man I’d left, I felt his bones when he wrapped me in for a welcome hug.
He was older.
Turning 50 this year, in fact.
All of a sudden, the joy of an overdue reunion was clouded by the sadness of 3 years wasted away from each other.
But I smiled.
I smiled when I saw how my dad and my husband just clicked.
I smiled when my husband started calling him “Dad” and “D” in just a few short days.
I smiled when I swapped stories with my dad in Bisaya, from the good old days to the present.
I smiled because each moment was just a fleeting memory, and no amount of pictures and videos could capture any single quality time spent with my dad.
About a week after I arrived,
I visited my 97-year-old Angkong.
I was afraid he would not recognize me.
Even worse, I was afraid he would and then refuse to talk to me, because I didn’t even say goodbye to him when I first left.
While I was away, I spoke to my Angkong a handful of times on Skype (before free video calls were blocked).
I still remember, 1 year into living in Dubai, when he asked me when I would be coming home and that he missed me.
He actually said he missed me!
Anybody with a Chinese grandfather would tell you that that’s not something you hear every day.
In a culture that, for whatever reason, does not freely express love and affection.
I told him I was coming home for Christmas.
I lied.
I already knew I couldn’t.
I just didn’t have the heart to tell him.
When I finally saw him again 2 weeks ago, he barely opened his mouth to speak.
The few times he did, he did not address me directly.
My heart fell.
He just stared at me with his small Oriental eyes, the same way he stared at my husband and the 2 bags of Lebanese roasted nuts we brought him.
My brother peeled a pistachio for him, but he shook his head and said it was too tough for him to eat, even with his dentures.
My uncles and aunts were there too to lighten up the mood.
But my focus remained on Angkong and his unreadable silence.
Finally, he called his nurse and said he was going to sleep.
My brother said that was odd, considering my Angkong followed a strict daily routine, ending with a 7 p.m. bedtime.
So the both of us tailed behind Angkong to his room, where he settled on his favorite couch.
Then Angkong instantly became much more chatty.
The first thing he asked me was about my husband.
“Where is he from?”
“Egypt.”
He blinked a few times and shook his head and said, “I don’t know where that is.”
Then it occurred to me that maybe Angkong’s silence was really just his shyness at having to sit with my foreign husband.
Maybe Angkong wasn’t really angry with me at all!
He complained that he had a hard time walking now.
I said it didn’t matter, that he still looked young with his hair regularly dyed black.
What’s really astounding is Angkong’s sharp memory at his age.
He is a little hard of hearing, of course, but all things considered, I was still able to carry on a perfectly normal conversation with him.
Then I asked Angkong if we could take a photo together.
His response?
“Pass me my dentures.”
I guess a great sense of humor really knows no age.
I saw Angkong a couple more times again after that.
I got to know his schedule.
I especially enjoyed seeing him study the clock and then the CCTV, eagerly waiting for his daily Chinese newspaper delivery.
The day before our flight, we found him sitting on the third floor living room sofa.
We took turns kissing his hand.
He looked a lot more at ease with Adam around, and in the same way he showed his affection for us growing up, he plied us with lots of food.
Peanut rolls, sticky suman rice, pomelo and pineapple and ice cold soda.
I wasn’t very hungry, but I ate as heartily as I could, if only to show Angkong how grateful I was to him.
He asked me what time I was leaving the next day.
I knew he committed it to memory that my flight was at 1 p.m.
I could already picture him sitting on his living room couch, staring at the clock when it struck 1, maybe thinking about me.
I fought back the sadness and put on a brave face.
I showed him photos and videos of my wedding day.
I showed him his photos I saved on my phone, the ones dad and Lyle sent me while I was away.
Lyle said Angkong once told him that he thought I would never come back.
Maybe that’s why Adam said he thought he saw Angkong cry when we finally stood up to leave.
It was much more difficult to leave this time around.
I realized that everyone is getting older — Angkong especially and dad too.
Even my dog, Panic.
My little brother is growing up.
One more cousin is leaving for Australia.
Another cousin is just waiting for her US visa.
Friends are busy with their own lives.
Time is slipping away.
No matter how much I cling to a happy moment, it inevitably becomes a bittersweet memory.
I spent the last few days of my vacation crying.
I cried especially because of my dad.
I would miss calling him up and seeing him in just 15 minutes with the car, ready to take me anywhere I want to go.
I would really miss seeing him whenever I wanted.
So unlike living in Dubai with the 4-hour difference and the thousands of miles distance.
In Dubai, I have to be independent and self-sufficient.
At home with my dad, I could be his spoiled only daughter again.
Two times dad prepared homecooked meals for me and Adam at the flat, and it felt so good to just sit there chatting with him and not do anything (okay well, except the dishes afterwards).
I especially enjoyed when he and Adam swapped cooking tips and took turns preparing their own dish.
I wish every day was just like that.
But that’s not the way reality works.
At least, not our reality anyway.
Dad can’t afford to miss a day from work.
I can’t afford to stay in Cebu with its high living cost and low salary.
We don’t have a choice.
Like Persephone, I left my dad, not because I wanted to, but because I had to.
Just as he took care of me when I was a child, I will take care to prepare a comfortable retirement for him when the time comes.
For now, we just have to learn to say goodbye.