For My Father

The look in his eyes
is not the same
as the one I remembered
five years ago...

This one has that trace of pride
over a son
who found the luck
he spent all his life searching for.
Not the same look
he gave me on the front porch
of a house half finished,
like a symbol of his struggles.

I still can remember
his words that night
after six bottles of beer.
he said, and I quote:
” Find your self.
your life is being wasted
one day at a time.”
and I, drunk and crying,
swallowed my last swig of beer
I almost vomitted.

For between me and this man,
there weren’t much words spoken.
We were so alike.
That’s why we don’t agree
on a lot of things.
His stubborn pride
enduced by the experiences
he endured
and my own selfish pride
struggling to find my own way
so as not to be identified with him.
But I am his son
and he, my father.

Few words…
but they weighed
far more than I could
possibly put into this poem.

Growing up,
I discovered
how so much alike we were.
and I honestly hated that fact
so much, that I vowed to do things my way
only to discover
he did the same things
during his time.
I hated it.
But I am his son
and he, my father.

The arguments between us
over dinner
are now just memories
of how opinionated
we both are.
I laughed at the thought
of how stupid I was
during those times
failing to recognise
the wisdom in his words.
But I do now
and I thank God
For being his son
and he, my father…

Now, as I stepped down from the plane,
I saw the man
and saw how age has etched lines
on that familiar face.
We hugged.
Not so much words.
Just like old times, I thought.
But I knew how happy this man is.
I feel him. He feels me.
I know Him. He knows me.
‘coz I am his son
and he, my father.

We reached our home
and there she was,
waiting on the same porch
full of memories,
the mother and the wife
who has witnessed it all.
She was God’s messenger
to these two souls
the son,
and the father.

The night that followed
saw us drinking
with our friends
(yes, we are so alike
that we have the same
set of friends…)
and hearing him talk
about me
is a feeling
I wouldn’t trade for anything
in this world.

Five years
and a lot has changed.
The house, nearing completion.
But me and my father,
still with very little words between us,
share this bond
forged by countless bottles of beer.

Looking at him,
I realized how he loves people
and the company of friends
(as much as I do…)
and how I would look like
twenty years from now.
I smiled at the thought
of how blessed I am
to be his son
and he, my father…