Butong pakwan (watermelon seeds)

He wears thick gold bracelets and rings festooned with diamonds; he speaks with his big raging voice as though always inviting of a debate; he stands with the military erectness of his body like nothing can make him fall …

… My ever boastful, powerful, and proud father had a sudden death, the cause of which is heat stroke, they say.

THE BOWL WAS EMPTY. I’ve filled it for about the second or third time with butong pakwan (those salted, dried watermelon seeds people pull out from their brittle, roasted rind). Though never addicted to butong pakwan since childhood, I’ve tried them back then, doing the same thing: placing them on a plate, so my sister could actually eliminate their roasted rind using her bare hands for me. This time, however, it felt different. Pouring butong pakwan into the bowl, I felt my heart throbbing—because the serving was for my father’s funeral.

It has been nine days now. My father, Alberto Reyes Mendoza, 65, died last April 12, 2012. Laughing about the rumor that 2012 would be the end of the world, my father never got ill, giving us no sign that this year would actually be the end of his life’s journey. The cause of his death was heat stroke, they say, combined with the fact that his mesomorph body had gained so much weight. Later that night before Daddy died, they say he was so bothered by the hot weather. One of our neighbors even said that they saw him in front of our gate at 12 midnight. Instead of joining Mama in their room, and instead of sleeping at the air-conditioned room (he hates air conditioning), he chose to sleep in our veranda, right at his favorite hangout in our house: a Cleopatra bench in our terrace. It was the place where Mama found him, as though he was just sleeping, lifeless. It was the same place where I saw him resting last April 9, as I bid adieu when I went back to Makati after the Holy Week. On my way to the bus terminal, I’ve passed by a provincial office of the Philippine Daily Inquirer, a national newspaper, the head office of which is in Makati. That was the first time I’ve noticed they also have an office in Pampanga. The thing that caught my attention, specifically, was the word “Obituaries,” placed right after the words “Advertisements and” on their minuscule sign. I’m not yet ready to have a family member listed in the Obituaries section of the newspaper, I said to myself. And on my way to Manila, at the North Luzon Expressway, a tower-high clock caught my attention too. It was an elegant display right in front of a cemetery. Those were two signs in a row, which meant nothing to me until I heard the news that Daddy died three days after. I never expected that the words “Good bye!” I said to him Monday were meant for life.

The day my father died, I was flabbergasted and confused when I received the news from my sister through phone. What am I going to do, I asked myself. That day, I still reported to work, spending time crying in front of my computer. The tears in my eyes felt like forever flowing. In my mind formed images with my strong and ever-proud father, then came memories of scenes with him I thought could never happen again—these memories initially felt like blades sharp enough to kill. When my boss permitted me to leave the office and go to my father’s wake, I stashed my things and rushed to my apartment. I packed my clothes, bought a piece of white shirt, and went straight to Pampanga. On my way to Pampanga, the travel time that typically feels like only a few hours seemed endless. I was thinking, this time, I’m going home but I won’t see Daddy talking again, or that I won’t see him laid down on his favorite bench—instead I’d see him laid down in his coffin. The noise caused by his loud speaking voice, which people usually associate with a raging dragon, would be replaced by sounds from vigil prayers and voices of people extending their sympathy for our family’s loss, people who might repeatedly ask what caused my father’s death while pulling out butong pakwan from its rind. Likewise, I thought more of my mom than myself. Who would ever sleep with her in the room? Who would drive for her during her regular checkups whenever needed? Who would eat with her during meals? Who would protect her from my nephew whose stubbornness sometimes makes him hyperactive and brutal? Questions like these cluttered my thoughts, and when the answer is none, it worried me more. I know my father’s passing is painful for her; he’s the only man she’d loved for almost 40 years now.

When I arrived in our house, I concealed my emotions, glanced at my father’s coffin, and went straight to my mom who was taking her dinner alone: right arm leaned on our glass table, hand supporting her forehead, with swelling teary eyes and a frowned facial expression. She cried on my shoulder saying, “Likwan na katamu!” (He left us!). She was depressed. Meanwhile, during the funeral I helped serve food to people, especially to my friends and colleagues—Mitch, April, PG, and Tim were there on the second day; Bert came on the last day. While pouring watermelon seeds into a bowl, I’ve realized that as we run out of stocks of our butong pakwan, my father was about to leave our house as the interment was almost over. He’ll be gone soon, and the only way I could ever see him again would be through a photograph. I’ve also thought of a symmetry between life and these seeds: Just as we’re about to run out of stocks of butong pakwan, the days of our lives will someday reach a dead end. The only difference is that you can always buy another pack of seeds, but never another pack of life—we live only once in this world, and that’s all we have other than, perhaps, eternal life.

Few days later, my brother Alper came from Australia and (he’d stayed here for less than a week). Finally, our family was almost complete again after a long time. The following day, we had to bring Daddy to his final destination—right there beside the tomb of my grandpa Sixto, my father’s Dad. I believe that though Daddy’s body could be already six feet under, his soul is up there, somewhere in a better place, watching over us, his five children, and, most of all, Mama, his beloved wife.

There are times that I’d abruptly feel tears in my eyes when I realize that Daddy has already departed. The hardest time of the day, for me, is in the morning when I wake up—during which I suddenly forget that, the day before, I’ve fully accepted the inevitable fact. Sometimes, before I eat, I talk as though he’s there until, one evening, I’ve realized I should allow him to let go and rest in peace. It’s just that our adventure with him is over, and I’d like to believe that he’s happier now. We have to move forward and be happy for him, since, up to his last breath, he had preserved his image as a strong and brave debonair man who fears nothing, no one, not even death. Though it really hurts to have someone dear to you die unexpectedly, we have to think in cognitive dissonance—his death was painless; he never suffered as though he just decided to sleep eternally.

Throughout my own journey, Daddy will always be a part of my life, a precious portion of my memory.