Angels

 

It was May 2022, just 4 months before you died. I came for your 96^th 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.

 

 

The deserted hut in the field that day