Juan: The Only One

Donned in black robe and a gavel in hand, you quietly listened to a bunch of people pleading their cases. You looked menacing and powerful. It was the first time I saw you in your chambers. For an eight-year-old kid, I was equally confused and intrigued. To my eyes, you were my burly old dad who never raised his voice.

Growing up with five rowdy brothers, you always treated me differently. Unlike them, I was the only one who could not drive around nor stay out late. A different set of rules applied to me, as you succinctly put it, “Because you are a girl”. I have never fully understood it then but they said it was because I’m the apple of your eye.

You never told me how proud you are of me. But tales of you gushing about your little girl acing debates or becoming a campus journalist would always reach me. To this day, I remember how your hands were shaking as you pinned a medal on me during my graduation. You were never vocal about these things but I saw how proud you are.

Your job took you away from home for the most part. So on my birthdays, you would send me birthday cards with your handwritten notes. I remembered your peculiar handwriting in cursive neat strokes. The cards would always be in purple just how I liked them. You gave me purple sneakers and purple watch. It doesn’t matter whether I was five or twenty-five; you always treated me like I’m still your little girl.

As I grew older, I have seen less of you. Now that I am the one away from home, I find myself curating my memories with you. I realized the fondest are not the ones when you bought me a watch but when you gave me your time.

Looking at life through a grown up lens, I am in awe of how you became a father to six children, five strapping boys and one stubborn girl.

I salute you, Dad! You will always be my first love!

By: Joanna Cabredo