A father’s daughter

By Emmanuelle

These feet have walked, jogged, then wandered, wondered far and wide – miles and miles of all kinds of man-laid paths – sandy, dusty, or pebbled trails; paved, tiled, or brick-laid roads; darkly, grainy, meltingly oily, shimmering asphalt; evenly, heavenly hi-ways.

A few feet above these feet, these eyes. These eyes, too, have wandered, wondered through villages, towns, islands where these paths have meandered near or through – and have seen man at his very best, and at his very beastly best.

Naturally, this heart in this not-so-sturdy body, had no choice but to attach itself to its masters, those feet and those eyes (or is it the other way around: the heart is the master, the feet and eyes the slaves?), usually tagging merrily along in joy and in celebration of life; in rare times, loudly thumping in anticipation or in fear; sometimes, worriedly whooshing in sadness or in pain.

More often, these feet halt before scenes of mothers and their children, these eyes amazed by the umbilical cord – cut-off at birth but visibly invisibly there – that links the ones who had borne and those they had borne.  These eyes drink in these scenes, and the heart is full.

But because the following scene is so preciously rare, this heart was near to bursting when these eyes came to sight a father and a daughter closer than no other.

    Bimbo and Jeanette were blessed with three kids. Redmond is the eldest, Ivy the middle child. Between Ivy and bunso Sarah is a gap of seven years. When Sarah was five years of age, Jeanette died of a massive heart attack. To raise three kids alone, a man has to have a bottomless reservoir of strength and a perpetual spring of patience and love. Bimbo must have had these, for the kids survived the early tragedy and hurdled over all other growing-up pains.

Sarah grew from a gurgling, bouncing beautiful baby to a lively, lovely young lady. And wonder of all wonders, she assigned to her young, fragile shoulders the task of being Papa’s “little nurse”. And Papa’s “little cook”. And Papa’s “little help“. Even when she was not so little anymore, she was all those and more – she was Papa’s best friend.

I had seen, I had watched this father and child in a not-so distant past, and that scene re-creates and replays itself in my mind, so forever touched.

To Bimbo and Sarah, and to all fathers and their daughters, I wrote these lines:

So rare like a breath of myrtle bared

this bond a father and daughter shared:

“closer than no other” pledged the child – and having witnessed , believe did I.

Father, forever cherish this child –

she is your tears and laughter combined;

 through your  sons, your flesh is reborn, through your daughter, your self is enshrined.

Daughter, forever hold fast to your pledge  as churn on the tides of time, of change –  your frail self, a father’s rock of strength  your frail heart, a father’s niche of peace.

Sixteen-year old Sarah was diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes since she was ten, and had been taking insulin shots just until about a week ago. She had hence joined her Maker, and her mother. Sweet sailing in heaven’s clouds, Sarah.

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