Papa,
I still remember that day when I saw you again. My stomach was churning over that unfamiliar place—filled with passengers roaming with their baggage from left to right. Bright lights encircled the place and sounds of repetitive voices echoed from afar.
Ever since you left, I kept on waking up during the wee hours. My mind hovered over what ocean you were currently traveling. My broken crayons would be tracing the maps, wondering which country you were in.
We searched through a tide of passengers that day, looking for you. My eyes wandered through the crowd while the pounding of my chest quickened.
Suddenly, a man stood inches away, smiling brightly with his arms outstretched. My elder brothers, both grinning, ran towards the man, but I hurried behind Mama’s back. It has been five long years, after all.
You laughed faintly. Your warmth lingered as your hands touched mine. Even though your presence in my childhood was momentary, every memory of you remained.
I could see you dribbling a basketball under the scorching heat of June. I could feel the softness in your voice and how it comforted me whenever I got disappointed with my grades. I could hear you singing at each family gathering, and I am always at the front row cheering for you.
Years passed. I am no longer a kid, but your presence has always been the refuge I seek. F GHEMARIE C. LABSAN
