1.5 months later, 3 weeks’ trip home included, I am back to this side of the ocean. A long journey like that, in distance and time, feels anything but long. There had been much anxiety beforehand, but it did work out with tons of fun, enough rest and even an unexpected happy ending. But why should I ever be surprised? Life has determined to continue playing the same trick on me with its satire and unpredictability. To date, the adventure still overwhelmed me much that I have not yet been able to digest and reflect weeks later.
For the world’s eyes only, I bounced back with barely a day of rest, returning to my job and routines as I battled the persistent jet leg and demanding catch-up with both work and preparation of Thanksgiving. The reality within, though, is the struggle to make peace or sense out of the trip. I had expected its worst when it did quite the opposite. Among all my apprehensions, none other surpassed the relationship I have had with my father.
Oddly, I resemble him the most out of his 4 children. Many have marveled and joked about my being the exact replica of him: dark and small framed with the same facial feature, where the contrariness is that I am exactly the opposite of him. He is reserved and disciplined, while I am explosive and impulsive; he is assertive and graceful yet I timid and awkward; he is forever detached from all fear and care and I perpetually restless and fretful. The biggest absurdity is in as much as our outward resemblance our internal difference has made our relationship an absolute impossibility. Not only have I not had any father-daughter talks or walks, but also his presence intimated me such that I wouldn’t know what to say or act when he was around. It would be an understatement to quote me as NO-“daddy’s little girl”.
Many decades later, across an ocean and a vast foreign land, the separation of time and space may have put this strain between us in remission but it silently continued on and faithfully resurfaced with each trip home. Like any survivors, I developed schemes to cope with life’s obstinate obstacles – in this case, avoiding being with him alone. That was why it surprised even me when I volunteered to go hiking with him the 2nd day after I returned home.
It was one of those mysterious moments when your impulsivity gets the better of you. I could see on his face the same confusion, milder but apparent, at my request. Mayhap he too had a similar out-of-body experience when his sensitivity betrays his better sense, but he did not protest. At 2:30pm, we set out. Our ride to the park was but a 15-minute route through a busy city. I chatted on lightly as I surveyed mindlessly the life and activity on the streets that looked completely alien to me decades later. I was wondering if they looked back at us but a pair of normal father and daughter going outing. Finally we parked and started our hike. It began at the foot of the mountain with endless steps winding around and all the way up. The path was rocky but well maintained. He led the way. At 75, my father is still active and fit. His dancer frame from behind looked nimble and at ease as he took the steps effortlessly. At 3pm, the mountain was almost deserted with air moving soundlessly on the tree top. It was already in the midst of November, and yet the leaves in that tropical island were still in their vibrant green. There in front of me was my estranged father, so close yet forever so far, taking me for a hike. The strenuous activity left us little energy for conversation as we climbed up and down, taking caution for every step. Even then, the contrast between us was evident: he was the royal prince, swift and gracious and I the gypsy, careless and clumsy. Somehow, it felt comfortable: the quiet path, the cool, whispering air and the lazy afternoon sun. And in the mist of that tranquility were the 2 strangers communing wordlessly first time of their life.
One and half hours later, we returned to the foot of the mountain. My knees had taken a toll from those endless steps and I was grateful to see them behind me. My father, surprisingly, looked as unaffected as he ever was. I wondered if that was true inside too. We hopped back to the car and headed back. Traffic started to pick up for rush hour now. As we passed through the same streets, I remembered in growing up when my friends talked of their father-daughter moments how fascinated I was with those mysterious, almost alien experiences of theirs. I couldn’t exactly claim our 2-hour hike as one of those, but I would definitely with much pride chime in now: well, I went hiking with my father!
For the world’s eyes only, I bounced back with barely a day of rest, returning to my job and routines as I battled the persistent jet leg and demanding catch-up with both work and preparation of Thanksgiving. The reality within, though, is the struggle to make peace or sense out of the trip. I had expected its worst when it did quite the opposite. Among all my apprehensions, none other surpassed the relationship I have had with my father.
Oddly, I resemble him the most out of his 4 children. Many have marveled and joked about my being the exact replica of him: dark and small framed with the same facial feature, where the contrariness is that I am exactly the opposite of him. He is reserved and disciplined, while I am explosive and impulsive; he is assertive and graceful yet I timid and awkward; he is forever detached from all fear and care and I perpetually restless and fretful. The biggest absurdity is in as much as our outward resemblance our internal difference has made our relationship an absolute impossibility. Not only have I not had any father-daughter talks or walks, but also his presence intimated me such that I wouldn’t know what to say or act when he was around. It would be an understatement to quote me as NO-“daddy’s little girl”.
Many decades later, across an ocean and a vast foreign land, the separation of time and space may have put this strain between us in remission but it silently continued on and faithfully resurfaced with each trip home. Like any survivors, I developed schemes to cope with life’s obstinate obstacles – in this case, avoiding being with him alone. That was why it surprised even me when I volunteered to go hiking with him the 2nd day after I returned home.
It was one of those mysterious moments when your impulsivity gets the better of you. I could see on his face the same confusion, milder but apparent, at my request. Mayhap he too had a similar out-of-body experience when his sensitivity betrays his better sense, but he did not protest. At 2:30pm, we set out. Our ride to the park was but a 15-minute route through a busy city. I chatted on lightly as I surveyed mindlessly the life and activity on the streets that looked completely alien to me decades later. I was wondering if they looked back at us but a pair of normal father and daughter going outing. Finally we parked and started our hike. It began at the foot of the mountain with endless steps winding around and all the way up. The path was rocky but well maintained. He led the way. At 75, my father is still active and fit. His dancer frame from behind looked nimble and at ease as he took the steps effortlessly. At 3pm, the mountain was almost deserted with air moving soundlessly on the tree top. It was already in the midst of November, and yet the leaves in that tropical island were still in their vibrant green. There in front of me was my estranged father, so close yet forever so far, taking me for a hike. The strenuous activity left us little energy for conversation as we climbed up and down, taking caution for every step. Even then, the contrast between us was evident: he was the royal prince, swift and gracious and I the gypsy, careless and clumsy. Somehow, it felt comfortable: the quiet path, the cool, whispering air and the lazy afternoon sun. And in the mist of that tranquility were the 2 strangers communing wordlessly first time of their life.
One and half hours later, we returned to the foot of the mountain. My knees had taken a toll from those endless steps and I was grateful to see them behind me. My father, surprisingly, looked as unaffected as he ever was. I wondered if that was true inside too. We hopped back to the car and headed back. Traffic started to pick up for rush hour now. As we passed through the same streets, I remembered in growing up when my friends talked of their father-daughter moments how fascinated I was with those mysterious, almost alien experiences of theirs. I couldn’t exactly claim our 2-hour hike as one of those, but I would definitely with much pride chime in now: well, I went hiking with my father!
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