#letterstodaddy

Letter to Daddy: The Guitar you bought me

Dear Daddy,

You probably don’t remember the day I told you I wanted to play the guitar. I didn’t even say it seriously. It was just in passing, like one of those small thoughts I blurt out without thinking. But the next day, or maybe two days later, you came home with one. I was shocked. We didn’t have a lot of money back then, so I still don’t know how or why you did it.

The truth is, I never got past a few notes. My fingers hurt, and I gave up too soon. The guitar stayed in the closet for years. I tried again once, years later, but by then it was already broken and couldn’t be fixed. You weren’t mad. You were never mad about things like that. You just told me, in your calm way, that it couldn’t be repaired.

Sometimes I wonder if you bought that guitar because you wanted to see me play, or maybe because you once dreamed of playing yourself. I’ve seen your old photos: cool, confident, looking like someone who could’ve been on stage.

I feel guilty. Maybe because I know there were so many things you wanted for me that I didn’t give you. You probably wanted a straight son. You probably wanted grandchildren earlier. I didn’t give you those, even though you never complained, even though you accepted my boyfriend and treated him with kindness. You never showed me disappointment, but I still feel like I fell short.

So maybe this guitar thing is something I can still do for you. It’s small, but it’s one dream I think I can honor. One piece of you I can carry forward. Maybe when I finally learn to play, even in death, we will become closer.

Love,

Letter to Daddy: The House and the Garden

Hi Daddy,

We visited you earlier this morning. I was still sleepy from church and my body felt heavy because my meds had already worn off. I was a little irritable, and when I feel that way, I often think of you. Not because you ever made me feel bad, but because missing you has a way of showing up in those quiet, unguarded moments.

When I closed my eyes, I went back to our last trip together. It was just a few days before you went to the ICU. We were at that glamping Airbnb, sitting in an open bahay kubo while the cold air settled around us. The bonfire kept us warm. We were talking about the kind of life we wanted to build, buying our own land, putting up a house, and creating a garden. You said you would build the house and Mom would take care of the plants. I remember thinking it sounded so possible, and I could see it clearly in my mind.

The plan is still there, but it has changed a little. It might not be as big as we imagined, but I hope for something more intimate, a place where your future grandchildren can grow up. Right now, funds are tight and we are still paying your medical bills. But I would never regret that. Every peso was worth it if it meant extending your life even a little longer.

I am working hard, taking on extra jobs and slowly moving toward that day. And when it comes, I imagine you there. You probably would not say much, but you would be with the children, playing with them. We plan to gather every video we can find of you, so they will know your voice and your smile. You will always be part of them, even if they only meet you through our stories.

I hope you can hear me wherever you are.

Love,