A year ago, my hero, my Papa, has fallen down and has gotten a pair of angel wings.
He left after a valiant fight. He won over the sepsis that almost consumed him, but lost to a new infection that his frail body cannot conquer anymore.
As he lay there, I whispered to his ear, “I don’t want to let you go. I want you to fight, but if you can’t take it anymore, Papa, I am letting you go. Go towards the light. Go to Mama. She is waiting for you.”
I knew he heard me. As opposed to his three near deaths in the hospital, this time he wanted to go. He was giving up the fight to meet his lady on the other side.
As they tried to revive him (my brother’s order-who was on his way home from Manila- was to revive him so that he can see him before he dies), I told him to “Go, Papa!”
I imagined him giving my mom a warm hug-The woman he told me he missed so bad days before we had to bring him to the hospital.
I imagined him being strong and healthy and handsome, not the man with tubes inserted in his body (and which he hated so much), meeting my beautiful mom who must be in the pink suit I saw her wearing in a dream where she told me she is marrying my papa again.
They must be standing in front of Jesus now.
Please don’t tell me not to cry, because it does not mean I am not letting my hero go. I am crying because I miss him so bad…
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