This man, my father

My father turned 78 years old on April 3.

I was in Cebu on his birthday, so we had a belated, intimate birthday party the weekend I came home. It was a party of three. Like I said, intimate.  He just wanted to find out what frozen yogurt tastes like, and why I’m so fond of it. Our little party took place on one of those circular benches inside Robinson’s Place. We scooped up chocolate syrup-drizzled yogurt with the tiny plastic spoons from tiny styrofoam cups. Dad enjoyed every spoon-licking second of it.

I can’t believe he’ll be hitting 80 soon. Fingers crossed that “soon” will not come too fast. My parents growing old is something that I can’t wrap my head around for now. It’s not a fact. I want it to be pure fiction.

I know. I’m in denial stage.

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I write to live, or live to write. Whichever it is, writing is my life.

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