Butterfly Kisses.
It’s about seven in the morning, and Bob just left for Cabanatuan. I’m here, alone in the room, playing songs for the wedding, listing everything down so I would remember all of them.
I was doing just fine until I got to Butterfly Kisses.
I think ever since I had the concept of a wedding, this song has always been the one song I know I would play at the event. I’m sure I share this sentiment with all upcoming brides.
I used to listen to the song a lot before, but I never thought that the feeling the song would give you is way different when you are really getting married.
I am Papa’s little girl.
Let me tell you something about my father.
If I say, “He’s the best,” it would not be enough.
Mama always told me that my first words were “Papa.” It was when she placed the phone on my ear, just after the surgery I had when I was six months old. I don’t have clear memories of him from my childhood, I guess it’s because he would just go home every year for a month and… I guess I just got used to it.
My childhood days were spent with him on the phone on Christmas Eve, on birthdays and other special occasions. I remember one specific birthday when I was rushing home, my aunt stopped me at the door and said there’s a surprise waiting for me inside. At the table was a bucket of KFC and a cake, with the words, “Happy Birthday Nina,” Love, Mama and Papa. I was a kid then and I thought the bucket and the cake really came all the way from Jeddah.
My joy would root out from pasalubong boxes he would sent us each year. Voice tapes were the “cool” thing then, and I can clearly remember competing with my sister on who’s got the most mentions in the tape, and to avoid conflicts, Papa just decided to give us separate tapes, and my sister and I would then compare who’s got the longer one.
He would go home once a year, but I have no clear memories of that, though.
But I do remember looking forward to it each year.
I would always be the first one in school to have the latest gadget, the prettiest Barbie, and the cutest Polly Pockets. I guess I grew up thinking that whatever I ask for, I’m free to have.
I would go and boast around that I have the best daddy in the world. Looking back at it now, I guess they provided me the sense of security I needed back then; I guess the material things proved to me that my Dad was real. Not just a voice on the phone.
As I grew up, I know I want to be an achiever. I wanted to be the daughter she would be proud of.
When I was 7 or 8 years old, I began to sense that there was something wrong. Mama would always make me call Papa’s office. Then was the time where telephone operators were the “in” thing. I would pretend to be 18 years old so they would connect me to Jeddah. I would look for Mr. Pabico, the cashier. And then few months later, I began to look for Mr. Pabico, the supervisor.
Everything was going well for him and I guess the same goes with ours. Mama was doing well with her canteen business and Joy and I would be left with Yaya’s, or Tita’s, or sometimes, we stay at the convent when Mama can’t pick us up on time.
I remember calling El Shaddai every night so they would pray for Papa. This has become the household joke later on, coz my mama heard me say, “Sana po walang manyanyaring masama kay Papa sa Jeddah.”
When I was 8, Mama had to leave for Jeddah too. She spent about a year fixing everything there, and when she went back here, she announced that we will come with her to Jeddah in December 1998.
To me, that was the best news in my life. Finally having to spend every single day with my father seemed like the best thing that could happen to me.
I met Papa when I was 11 years old.
I guess it’s safe to say that I maximized every minute that we could be together. Everything was real then – he’s there, physically. Spending the first Christmas together, the first birthdays, it was all so perfect to me.
It was all so real to us that finally, after missing out so much on each other, we are all under one roof.
But then somehow it has to end, 6 years of being with them has to end because of college. I felt so angry to the world, I was so used to being with them but then I had to go and live alone.
I turned 18 - and on my debut, where he was supposed to be the first dance - became a phone patch. All the visitors were crying. If I could dance with the phone, I would have.
The last time I’ve been with Papa is when I was sent back to Jeddah for an operation. He would buy me what I want, yet again. Would bring me to places I want to go. We went for a desert road trip when I felt like going. It was like putting all the years in one month.
I’m now getting married - and as real as it may seem right now, I know I will only be able to grasp the real joy of this whole thing when Papa finally confirms that he’s going home.
The phone call I’ve had with him last night seems to tell me otherwise, though. I just want him here. I just want my Papa. I don’t really need a grand wedding. I just want my Papa to walk me down the aisle, to give me away to another special man in my life.
I just want Papa. :(
Walk me down the aisle Daddy, it’s about time…
