Tonight I Write About Tata

Tonight, I write about Tata.


Tata was my last living grandparent. A little over a year ago, Tata passed away quite unexpectedly. I was here at the Metro when it happened. But my mind, over that entire week was with him.


Tata has always been sort of like a sentinel for me. He, in my own humble opinion, was my old man who I thought would never grow old.

He did.

But back in the older days, I have fond memories of Tata riding his bicycle, going around the old town. He is quite well known in the old neighborhood, and I can only surmise that this is because he was once the owner of the only restaurant/grocery/store in the old neighborhood. Tata used to own an old carpentry shop too. He had, in his employ a number of people who were then my playmates as a kid. I had waitresses as my yayas then. His carpenters were at my beck and call whenever I needed anything built - from small wooden chairs to mini tables as my playthings. My sister and I shared a small nook at the corner of the shop where we would build our little own world of made of wood, tools scrap metals. These days, one of my favorite scents remain to be the smell of fresh wood shavings. Looking back now, this might have been because this scent remind me of my youth when nothing and no one can touch me. Who could ever? My Tata was my sentinel - he stood guard for me, from all the possible harms that could hurt, down to the little scratches I got from playing around in his shop.

As a kid, I was a handful. I was spoiled rotten by my late Nana and by all my titos and titas. Whenever I would have my share of spanking from Papa during my younger days, I run to Tata's bedroom, and that was the end of my punishment. I would stay there until the late hours, watching PPP (Piling Piling Pelikula) and Box Office Hits from the old, yellow telly.

On most mornings, it was Tata's task to buy pandesal for the entire family. Even after our family has moved to another house, Tata, would always drop by riding his bicycle to give our morning ration of pandesal. He had also taken upon himself to get the previous night's trash so he can throw it in the dump site. This has been his daily morning ritual for as long as I can remember.

During the later part of his life, Tata has slowly become thinner and more sickly. His once stocky built has shrunk to a frail old man, yet he remained handsome, strong jawline and all. Despite his rheumatic joints, he continued to tower above us all, wide shouldered and well-postured. Tata remained his quiet, dignified stance, never bullying nor oppressing. He was a loving grandfather who never got mad, never demanded, and never imposed any rules.

It's been a little bit over a year since Tata has passed away. It isnt true when they say that time heals. When we lose someone we love, we are never, ever the same. And yes, we will be scarred forever. Time, however, has a way of making us feel better. Yet, the scars, however thin and light they become, will always be here.

Tonight, I write about Tata. Tonight, I feel my scars. And yes, over time, I have felt better about all that has happened. But I remember. And I know I miss my old man.