Dad's eyes are small and laughing, chinky and full of enthusiasm. His nose tough; a filipino nose; panggo. Face always lit up from lightly smiling. His ears long and big, always listening. His short hair tickling me when I touch it. Dad's name is Crisente Basco Andaca, Chris, Ente. My grandmother; Nanay, would affectionately call him Enteng. To me, he's Dad.
My love for hearing poems started when he'd recite a bilingual poem to my brother. English to Tagalog. Always that one poem, it's short and funny. He makes ridiculous faces as he recites his favorite part, the first part: "One day: Isang araw." Always so literal it makes me laugh just thinking of it. My brother loved those words. I remember it from the heart, just hearing him say it then Miguel laughing. Now I make my own and every stanza I remember the verses he'd chant comes to mind and I'd smile. He had another poem, about a kid jumping a candle stick... His name was Jack; and that's all I remember because I haven't heard it in a long time. But he'd always say these funny poems to my siblings and I when we were stuck at my grandparent's apartment as my parents worked.
I was 9 when Dad and Nanay moved back to the Philippines. And I only see them when we go to the Philippines every two years or so. And when I'm at the Philippines I'm always with my older cousin, Alexandra, who is so very patient and kind with my grandparents. We'd hang out and do stuff together like go to the computer cafe; pay for each other. We'd ask for money from our Dad, he'd give us twice as much as we'd ask for. We say thanks then leave.
Looking back, I think I probably should have done more to tell him that I appreciate him, not that he's dead; because he's alive and kicking. It's just that we're so far away and I don't spend as much time with him as my three other cousins: Raniel, Bianca and Alexandra. I worry that my relationship with him won't stand out as it would with them, or my older sister, Mickaela; who spent two and a half years in the Philippines under my auntie and his supervision, or my younger brother, Miguel; who is obviously his favorite seeing that he's the youngest in six of his grandchildren.
So when I talk to him on the phone, I'm sure to tell him my high school aspirations and who I want to be when I grow up, my current events and most everything in between. And he'd listen interested, asking the right questions at the right timing.
But now it's different. He's weaker and less keen as before. I still love him to no end, but he's different now. I don't talk to him on the phone as much because I can sense he's tired and don't want to make it worse.
What I feel for Dad is always been love. That's how I can explain it because I cannot compare and contrast. My paternal grandfather died when Papa was 3; I can't tell how I'd feel for him because I haven't even heard his voice before, let alone know what he was like.
I admire Dad because he never once lay a hand on any of my cousins, siblings, aunties nor did he lay hands on Nanay. Because he's too funny for words. 'Cause he's kind and caring; sincere; always asking how I am, if I'm okay. Because he's Dad and not "grandpa".
