One becomes a full-fledged grown-up only after a parent dies. This happens no matter how old we already are when one of our parents passes on to the afterlife. Gone are the unrestrained counsel dispensed as reprimands by an ascendant who pays no heed to a descendant’s title, power, or possessions. Gone is the fallback for shelter, money, and advice, when turbulent storms upend our lives. Gone is one of our most ardent fans, who feels most proud during milestones in our lives.
For as long as our forebears are alive, we will always be children in their eyes. We will forever feel like kids in their presence. There may still be a remaining parent who survives in our midst, but without the other, the four-legged chair that has provided support and comfort in our lives would precariously stand on two legs.
My father breathed his last at the ripe age of 87 on Nov. 20. He left behind my 84-year-old mother, his five children, four children-in-law, and 11 grandchildren.
Our father put into practice his agriculture degree by cultivating our modest farm. Our mother served as a public school teacher at the local elementary school that her children attended. Despite our parents’ diligence and industry, they struggled to provide for our needs as a family. As children, we didn’t have the luxuries enjoyed by many of our cousins. Instead, my two brothers and I were exposed to the sun and the elements when we helped our father and our grandfather with farm chores, while our two sisters assisted our mother at home. As the eldest, I personally experienced the kind of hard labor required in the planting, harvesting, and drying of rice and corn. Looking back, the difficulties our father exposed us to have equipped us with grit and determination, which have proved to be the most valuable of all the lessons we gained in life.