Happyish Father’s Day
Navigating grief on Father's Day
Father’s Day has come and gone, and it’s already Tuesday. Every year at this time, I feel the urge to write something to celebrate Papa–just like how my many friends do for their dads over Instagram photos and sweet captions.
Every year, I type down a few words but then never publish them. I have several unfinished drafts about Papa. I often don’t know how to finish things. How do you string words together, let alone a full blog post from a jumble of feelings inside your head?
But this year, I want to put something out there even if I’m two days late to the celebration. My words may still come out a bit messy, but hopefully, they bring enough warmth for someone who needs it. For those missing their dads more than usual because of this annual occasion.
It’s been almost five years since Papa passed away, yet I still sometimes zone out and tear up when memories of Papa in the hospital flash through my mind. The pain sneaks up on me, be it in a Grab commute or in a stroll in the mall. Once, a Shopee or Foodpanda push notification made me burst into tears after telling me to “Treat Mama and Papa today.” Ecommerce platforms can be jerks sometimes. Hah.
As every day, month, and year goes by, I feel an ache in my chest. It feels as if I’m walking farther and farther away from the time Papa was with us. It feels like leaving him behind. Of me reaching milestones and watching new TV shows and movies I’ll never get to tell him about.
But today, a bit of joy occupied the space where pain usually exists.
I visited the building where I used to work in 2018, the last year we had with Papa. I walked through the same doorway but for a different reason this time: A few doors down from my old office. A wonderfully messy art studio strewn with wood panels and ongoing mosaics and candlemaking supplies.
I dropped by to meet the owner; she greeted me with a wide smile. We sit down on stools, talk about art workshops, and gush over alcohol inks dancing on their canvas when you mix them with resin. We talk about possible collaborations, though nothing is set in stone yet. Still, I’m cautiously optimistic.
My body feels at ease in this place. It feels familiar.
It reminds me of Papa’s little workspace in our first home. I remember sitting on the bar stool beside him, rolling his spare pieces of clay into little balls while he sculpted The Thinker for one of his TV commercials. Or when I’d flip through his arts & crafts books and make random toys with matchboxes and stockings.
The studio owner bids me goodbye, shaking my hand with both of hers. I see genuine kindness in her eyes.
When I encounter people like her, it affirms how Papa always saw the good in everyone. How he’d speak kindly of people and empathize with them, even with those who didn’t show the same kindness.
I like to think I carry his view of the world with me, through first-time interactions with new and interesting people, and through hours-long conversations with dear old friends.
Over the years, I’ve realized the many ways I am like Papa. The quiet demeanor, the careful words, the endless desire to create.
The introversion. Of enjoying my own company on an empty mall bench facing a window or a quiet restaurant corner as I scribble away in a notebook, like today.
In a burger joint, I sit on a high stool facing a window, with silhouettes of people walking past outside against the dull glow of dusk. I pull out my blue spiral notebook from my bag and write down things I am grateful for, as well as passion projects and activities I look forward to in the coming weeks.
Some people believe grief gets smaller over time. But really, life just grows around it.
Grief and joy find a way to exist in the same space.
The ache of a fatherless Father’s Day never goes away. But neither do the lovely memories of Papa.
There is comfort in seeing and feeling the many ways he lives on around me and within me.