It was May 2022, just 4 months before you died.
I came for your 96th birthday dad. It was a wonderful surprise to
see you in the car as I peered in after collecting my bags from the arrival
area.
Oh my god, dad is here, I shouted in disbelief! He was mostly bed ridden that year. I was so
full of childlike excitement, a mix of having survived yet another flight (I
have a fear of flying) and the excitement of being back home in Borneo, but
most of all seeing my dad again. It felt like the 1970s when I would return from
boarding school, hugging my father once again, inhaling his familiar smell, absorbing,
breathing, and feeling the hot humid tropical air against my face and body that
I missed so much from the coldness of England. Suddenly all my worries and
responsibilities melted away.
I clambered into the back seat of his Mercedes that
he could no longer drive, and moved over to the middle seat next to where he
was sitting. I held his warm soft hands. So good to see
you dad. Your eyes were soft and content. The driver seemed chuffed, proud
to be driving his beloved boss and thrilled to see him happy with his daughter.
Because of covid I hadn’t physically seen my father for over 2 years. The country
had been shut down.
At times like this, I felt we had a secret. My
dad acted differently around me. It’s like he no longer had dementia or
whatever he was supposed to have. He seemed his old self. He would ask about his
grandkids, how I’m doing and perhaps a comment about what was going on in world
affairs. Momentarily he remembered everything.
A few days later I asked if he would like to go
for a drive. He didn’t always feel like going out. In his mind he had a myriad of
things to do, appointments to keep with the embassy or clients he had to see,
remnants of his old life mixed in with selective and vivid memories of then and
now.
My dad enjoyed going to the market to buy
fruits. It was necessary to take an entourage of helpers or staff as we ended
up calling them. It would take 2-3 people to maneuver him in and out of the
car, the driver, and the driver’s wife who was fond of my dad. My dad loved
anything that included being with other people and sharing the experience.
This time, however, it was just the driver, my
dad and me. We were in the car ready to set off.
I would like to see the angels, you said.
Where are the angels? I would ask.
You know where the angels are, he would reply, like of course I should know.
I had an idea to go to the church I was married
30 years prior in my grandmother’s village of Limbanak. Perhaps going to the
church meant seeing the angels. The village used to be far in the countryside,
but now a days with the modern roads, it was only a half hour away.
The road presented with a hopscotch of potholes
due to the rainy climate, but the Mercedes had good suspension. Sometimes as we
went around a corner my dad would end up slumping on me, and I would gently
nudge him back. I thought back to many a drive we had. He wasn’t the best
driver quite honestly, a little lackadaisical, too laid back. At times he would
drift to the middle of the road, and we would hysterically say, dad you can’t
do that, to which he would calmly say it’s all okay after coming so
close to all of us being killed by an oncoming truck.
On the winding unpaved road toward the church,
we drove past the remains of an old padi field, that used to dominate the landscape
in this area. A small hut appeared, so picturesque,
centered in the field, reminisce of a time long past. The scene looked like a watercolor
painting with sunlit trees and tall bright grass all around.
Look dad, this is the area of your mother’s
village! The driver pulled over. My dad looked
out of the window lifting his head to see and pointed, look that’s her house,
glancing over his glasses at the deserted hut.
Yes dad, I think that could be it, going along
with his memory even though the likelihood was as remote as the whereabouts of
this village once was.
Perhaps he sensed his mother there, his brothers,
sisters. Could this be where the angels were? My dad seemed comforted, calm.
I described to the driver about my dad’s life
here as a boy, telling the story of his humble beginnings, his simple life, but
really for my dad to hear that I really knew his life, and that his stories
were never to be forgotten. They will be passed along the generations.
When I reflect back to that day, I was truly in
the presence of angels.
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The deserted hut in the field that day
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