What happened in the evening of Friday, 31 May 1997 – at our ancestral home in Sablayan, Occidental Mindoro, Philippines – had prompted me to reminisce the events that happened 22 years ago.

Since I started my university schooling in Los Baňos, Laguna (some 65 kilometers from the capital city of Manila) in June 1977, I have always looked forward to going home either during Christmas break or summer vacation (Figure 1). I was barely 15 years old then. It was my first time to be away from home for an extended period. I stayed in a men’s dormitory, and was left virtually on my own to survive both the academic rigor and the pangs of adolescence. That is why I always found some solace and comfort whenever I came home.

Until 1984, our yearly reunion likewise gave me an opportunity to undertake other activities. These include re-acquainting with other relatives, reconnecting with old friends, and getting a glimpse of my first love interest – my primer amor so to speak. It also gave me a chance to eat with unrestricted gusto the food I love most, being prepared by my mother in a special way: deep-fried pork belly locally called as lechon kawali. At times, though, our family get-togethers were not always peaceful. They became venues for petty quarrels, remembering old misunderstandings and opening up past emotional wounds. Reunions – at odd sporadic times – also became occasions to accentuate on a few irreconcilable differences of each family member.

December 1983 may be rated as our happiest family reunion. It coincided with my parents’ silver wedding anniversary (Figure 2). It was quite unique, being a close re-enactment of an event that teleported my parents back in time.

Although the church setting had been changed (from the Catholic Church in Poblacion to the new church in Buenavista), they practically had the same entourage 25 years ago. The wedding ceremony was officiated by the same Hungarian Catholic priest. The original three sets of godparents, already in their 70s, were also present. Some specifically came just for the occasion, sacrificing the hardship of long land travel in corrugated rural roads. Many of our relatives and their friends who witnessed the ceremony 25 years ago – now mostly gray-haired – also attended the wedding anniversary. In fact, the original priest’s acolyte stood sheepishly on the sideline, except that he did not want to play the role anymore since he had grown bigger than my father! I am not sure if this event could be regarded as a record silver wedding event.

When my elder brother and I both got married in 1985, however, our reunions became infrequent as we started to lead separate lives. My brother stayed in Manila, my younger sister stayed with my parents in Mindoro Province, while I settled in Puerto Princesa City, Palawan Province in western Philippines.

We got together again in summer of 1992, nearly seven years after our last reunion. This time, my brother and I brought our respective families with us. I had two sons, and my elder brother had the same set. It was a different reunion as the focus of my parents and unmarried sister now shifted to our sons. They all wanted our third children to become girls so they would follow our own family’s gender sequence: boy-boy-girl. At that time, my father had just recently retired from his teaching job, and decided to launch a political career as a municipal councilor. Our children joined him in his political campaigns. Interestingly, my father barely won the last and eight candidature slot with a ‘sexy’ margin of 69 votes!

Our last get-together with complete family members was in summer of 1995 during my sister’s wedding. But this happened not in Mindoro Island but in Manila. All her nephews acted as ring bearers and a niece served as a flower girl. The occasion was filled with ‘controversy’, as my mother still had reservations with the marriage. She felt abandoned when she made a last-minute contention, which I gently rebuffed, thus siding with my brother and father to let go.

There were mixed emotions before and after the wedding; some issues were amicably settled, but a few old and emotional arguments were again rekindled. But it was a nice get-together overall, and we somehow reached an unspoken agreement that we would let go of the past and move on forward with our lives. I did not foresee that it was going to be the last reunion with all the five of us alive. Had I been given a crystal ball, I would have re-arranged a few things, if not modified some of my actions.

I was finishing the first year of my doctoral dissertation in Queensland, Australia, when my father suddenly died of a heart attack in the Philippines. That happened on 3 December 1996, barely a week prior to their 38^th wedding anniversary. I felt stunned when my wife conveyed the message over the phone. For complicated reasons involving airline bookings and schedule of my research project, I was not able to attend his funeral. I simply mourned his passing in private.

His death gave me an opportunity to reflect on the significance of a close-knit family, the values of homecomings and family reunions, and my relationship with him over the last 64 years. He was by-and-large a good and caring father. Although we had different views – ranging from politics to religion  –  we share the same passion for creative writing. He was also a practical joker, who would often hide at night, and then switch the lights on-and-off three times to scare us. There were light moments when I would fondly complain to him why, instead of acquiring his fine facial features, I inherited his gouty arthritis and heart ailments!

When you lose a loved one without warning, it forces you to reminisce on some missed opportunities that could have drawn you closer together. When I left for Australia in September 1996, my parents were in Manila. We did not see each other much, as my father was hospitalized due to his heart problem. Meanwhile, I was traveling around the Philippines working on my doctoral thesis.

Before I took the plane bound for Brisbane, Australia, I called my mother when I reached the international airport to say goodbye. I also wanted to speak to my father. There was a strange urging in me to talk to him, as if that may be the last time to hear his voice. But logic prevailed and I decided at the last moment not to. Since he just came out of the hospital, it would be difficult for him to climb upstairs to pick up the phone. Looking back, I wish I had talked to him that time to at least bid my farewell.

On 31 May 1997, I came home to Mindoro unannounced. My mother was shocked to meet me at the gate. She was about to report to work in that early afternoon. (She worked as a Rural Health Midwife then.) But I was surprised myself to learn that my brother (working as a civil engineer with the Department of Public Works and Highways) was also at home, inspecting a government engineering road project. We were not able to talk long, as I dozed off for lack of sleep and fatigue from a long air and land travel.

I was awakened early in the evening with a gentle nudge – it was my sister whispering that the meal table was ready. The four of us had dinner together, without my father, the first time since the summer of 1995. By sheer coincidence, we suddenly had an unexpected family reunion.

I browsed through the photographs that my father compiled through the years. For instance, we simply metamorphosed from 1967 (Figure 3) when my sister was born up to 1972 (Figure 4) when I started my high school. We reminisced the good old days, talked ceaselessly, and played cards. As social gamblers, playing cards with minor bets was a family activity that we often indulged in. We enjoyed each other’s company, and simply let the time pass by.

At about midnight, we decided to call it a day and parted ways joyfully. We leisurely walked separate ways. My sister headed towards the bathroom; my mother slowly climbed upstairs; my brother and I continued smoking in the sala. Suddenly, the light in the hallway – which my late father used to switch off to tease us – flicked. Not only once, but three times, in succession. It was kind of strange because all the other lights in the house were on. There was a sudden commotion as my mother immediately came down, and my sister, who was about to enter the bathroom, rushed back. We all assembled at the base of the stairway, as if we were drawn together by an unseen force. 

Astonishingly enough, we all felt peaceful and the surrounding was not eerie. We exchanged glances among ourselves. No words were spoken. There was no need. We knew deep within our hearts that my father was there. And flicking the hallway light three times was his peculiar way of reminding us that he was still part of the family’s unexpected reunion.

Copyright © 2019 by Michael D Pido