LOUIS MISSOURI–In an alternate universe, my dad and I are sipping espressos under a canopy of leaves at the portico of Bar Italia Ristorante, talking about life as people came and went. We’d lean leisurely against the back of vintage riviera chairs, enjoying the warm afternoon breeze that rustled the apple blossoms and made the strings of light bulbs dance.
No, Italian music would not be playing in the background. Instead, it would be our favorite album from Rod Stewart’s Great American Songbook, a nostalgic revival of American composer Cole Porter’s masterpieces–the same music we danced to during my 18th birthday and during my wedding many years later, the same melody that accompanied our conversations during long road trips between Panay, Negros, and Cebu.
We would look wistfully at the patterns of light and shadow on the portico as we reminisced about lazy summer days in my father’s hometown, Tanjay, drinking iced Ovaltine on the porch of his favorite aunt’s house, just a stone’s throw away from the plaza, while we waited for the day to cool down before walking to the old church to light candles and whisper prayers.
I would sigh deeply and ask him why life was so damned hard and why the right career always eluded me. He would chuckle and tell me I took life too seriously and that if I just let go and trusted the process, things would fall into place in the fullness of time.
But in this universe, I sip my espresso alone at Bar Italia, sitting at a small table in the portico with an empty riviera chair in front of me and love songs of Chicago playing softly in the background.
Daddy would have loved Bar Italia. It was a small neighborhood restaurant tucked away in St. Louis’ Central West End neighborhood, nestled nicely between a row of Tudor revival mansions and a Jewish cafe. I know he would have also loved St. Louis–its rich history, good food, and most of all, the music–St. Louis jazz.
I had never been to St. Louis before relocating last year but I knew from the first time I strolled through its charming neighborhoods and daintily manicured parks that my dad would have felt right at home. This was, after all, the version of America–of sweet and spicy barbecue and jazz–that he always imagined.
Daddy left last year on the 4th of July, just a day after I arrived in the US to pursue my MBA. It was freedom and a fresh start for both us, in a way. He, from his battle with a relentless disease; and myself, from professional tragedies that required a fresh start to move forward.
Before leaving for the airport, I embraced him tightly and whispered, “Magkita pa ta ha,” (“We’ll see each other again, okay?”) He smiled weakly and nodded. I kissed him on the cheek and he kissed my forehead. I glanced back at him quickly, waved, and turned away because I didn’t want him to see my eyes beginning to well with tears.
This was not my first time to be far away for many years but this was the first time I truly felt my heart break knowing that this may just be the last time we’ll see each other again.
I already missed Daddy the moment his diagnosis came out. The diagnosis was a harbinger of grief, carrying with it a profound sense of loss even when he was still with us. As he slept in the bedroom after the doctor’s appointment, my mother and I wept profusely as a deep sense of collective sadness shrouded us like a blanket of black lace.
I missed our long walks and even longer conversations about life, dreams, and the future, which now felt uncertain and fragile without his guidance.
I miss seeing him wave at me every time he picked me up at the airport. I miss the pit stops at cliffside carenderias whenever we drove home from Cebu to Dumaguete. I miss his listening ear and safe advice whenever I find myself in a rut.
Since then, every interaction was tinged with a bittersweet awareness that our time together was slipping away like water I tried to desperately grasp through my clenched hand.
Dying, like living, was a lot of hard work. Daddy drifted in and out of consciousness as he prepared to leave us. Some days, he was fully present, joking and joining in on conversations, especially when he had family and high school classmates visiting; but on other times, he was out of touch as he slowly began the spiritual and physical process of withdrawing from the world. Each fleeting moment of lucidity was a bittersweet gift, a chance to hold his hand, share a few words, and feel the warmth of his presence, even as he continued to slip away.
I would sit beside him whenever I’m home for the weekends, just like one of our long drives. My mom would check on him from time to time and she busied herself preparing his meals. She would remind me how to keep track of his oxygen.
Dying was also hard work for those who would continue living. Every time I watch him doze off at night, I am weighed down with a profound sense of helplessness and sorrow knowing that the most any of us could do then was to hold his hand and assure him he wasn’t alone.
“OK ra ka?” (Are you okay?) he would ask occasionally when he noticed me dozing off beside him in the wee hours of the morning.
“OK ra pod,” (I’m okay.) I’d choke out a reply, thankful I could hide my tears in the dimly lit room. “Ikaw, okay ra ka?” (What about you, are you okay?) I asked him back.
“OK ra pod,” he would assure me, although I knew he was in pain. We were both in pain.
Every time I moved to a new city, my dad’s steady presence was a source of comfort. He often traveled with me to help me set up my space. We would talk every day over the phone after work and although he wasn’t always physically there, the sound of his voice, his laughter, assured me that I wasn’t alone.
As the disease progressed, I found myself yearning for the small, everyday moments that I had once taken for granted—the simple joy of sharing a meal together and the quiet moments of companionship. The knowledge that these moments were numbered made each one more precious and more painful.
I missed the future we had imagined together, the places we had yet to visit, and the countless conversations we had yet to have. The diagnosis cast a long shadow over our days, making every goodbye as I returned to Manila feel heavier, every hug tighter, and every shared moment more poignant. I missed him with a depth that words could not fully capture, a longing that only deepened as time passed.
They say there is no loss where there is no love. Love and loss are two sides of the same coin where the depth of my sorrow was a measure of the strength of our bond. My father found belonging through his three aunts who cared for him as if he was their own son. Through their example, he learned what it meant to put others ahead of himself and I saw that in the way he cared for my cousins as if they were his own and how he would offer a ride home to my friends in the Student Government when our meetings finished late. Through my father, I learned what it meant to love and give selflessly.
In his last days, Daddy would tell me how he wanted to get better so he could pick me up or drive me to the airport again–but deep inside, we both knew at that point it was already wishful thinking. Even then, I always carried him in my heart. When he left, I felt he was also keen to keep his presence felt, especially when I’m traveling, mostly through the familiar strains of the songs we shared together.
On a long layover in Phoenix, tears streamed down my face as a random man played the Carpenters’ “Yesterday Once More” on the white baby grand piano in the corner, reminding me of the many road trips my dad and I shared before. As I sat there, the airport bustling around me, I felt a profound sense of loss and longing, the music a bittersweet soundtrack as I grieved.
At another time, during an Uber ride to the Chicago Union Station, Peter Cetera’s “Glory of Love” played on the car stereo. It was one of my dad’s favorite songs, a tune he would often have on repeat at home. Hearing it again brought back vivid memories of him singing along as he organized his CD collection. The familiar melody stirred up a wave of emotions, and I found myself dabbing my eyes with a thin sheet of tissue paper, struggling to hold back the tears. I closed my eyes, allowing the memories to wash over me and take me home.
It’s not just through these musical encounters that I know Daddy continues to watch over me.
On my first week in the US, I saw a number of deer in the woods at my husband’s family’s estate in Saddle River. A mini forest stretched beyond the swimming pool and was a favorite spot among deer. The serene beauty of these gentle creatures took me by surprise as they moved through the misty morning light.
Deer are not only symbols of gentleness and intuition in Native American lore. They are also considered spiritual messengers, representing the protective love of a father. My fleeting encounter with them that morning felt like a gentle reassurance from my dad that even in this new and unfamiliar place, he continues to watch over me.
The espresso cup clinked gently against the saucer, its sound resonating softly in the portico. From a distance, I noticed a father and his teenage daughter arriving, their faces lit with the warmth of shared moments. They settled into their seats with a natural ease, smiling and laughing. As I watched them, a gentle breeze stirred the air, rustling the leaves overhead and carrying with it a sense of peace.
Just then, a flash of vibrant red caught my eye—a cardinal flitted by, its wings a blur of motion, just one of the many encounters I’ve had with them when I moved to St. Louis. The sight of the cardinal brought a lump to my throat, as its presence felt like a fleeting visit from a world beyond. In this part of the world, cardinals are seen as messengers from the spirit world, symbols of loved ones watching over us. This little bird seemed to carry with it a message of love and reassurance, a reminder that those we cherish are never truly gone.
As the pair continued their animated conversation, I felt a pang of nostalgia. The cardinal perched briefly on a branch before vanishing and for a moment, it was just as if Daddy was there, watching over me, reminding me that regardless of where we are, we are never truly apart.
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