Father usually stays in their bedroom these days and I would always drop in before leaving for the office. And every single time, I’m sad to see how frail he’s gotten. Yesterday as I sat on the edge of the bed to kiss his forehead, he touched my arm and said, “Weng, uwi ka nang maaga ah.” I just said ‘Yes’ without the intention of doing so but still ended up going home earlier than usual.
Earlier today, I was not prepared to catch him hastily wipe a tear from his eye. He wasn’t expecting me to to peek in their bedroom, I guess. I pretended not to see it and gave him my usual happy goodbye kiss before heading out.
More than an hour ago, I heard a loud thud outside my room and I saw my father lying on the floor as he lost his balance on the way to the loo. My heart broke as I saw him in the middle of shattered bottles, with the light wooden divider on top of him. I cannot shake the image from my head.
I tried to remain calm through it all but my voice was giving me away. We supported him back to their room and fixed him up. When the cleanup was done, I went to my room. I cried. Something I haven’t done in a while
For what has became of my father.
For everything that’s making me sad.
For once, I don’t want to be the strong person that I usually am.
I just want to have the right to break down and be sad and just cry.
For all that is. For all that has become.
Resilience be damned.
I hate crying. It makes the eyes puffy. It makes an otherwise plain person look uglier than she already feels. I hate being sad. I hate writing like this. I hate that I have to put it out here to breathe a little.