Oct 15 2008
I’m a daughter of Eusebio
I’ve only got a few years of fond memories of my late father but I want to perpetuate them in my heart and cherish every single moment I spent with him.
When he was doing carpentry I’d watch as he smoothens a wood’s surface with a plainer. He took a pencil from one of his ears to draw a line on a plywood before he cut it with a saw. He picked up a chisel and skillfully curved a design on a piece of furniture. Each task he performed with cunning ability. No one gave negative feedback on his job. They were all well-done.
One night he came home from work in the mines and brought home a tuber–a rattan shoot actually. The next day I tasted a delicate dish that I have never again tasted until now. Somehow the taste linger in my memory. On another occassion someone brought us a brownish seaweed that looked like a dwarf bush void of leaves during winter. This he also cooked in a way I would later feast on with so much gusto.
Yes, he was the gourmet chef in the house. One day he was cooking lunch when he called in the kitchen and handed me a bowl with fish egg. He let me eat it before my older siblings did. Being the youngest I felt so privileged to be treated in a special way by him.
But he was not the nicest father in town either. There were only the two of us at home. He was taking a nap. I saw his graying hairs and I offered to pluck them. To my surprised he snarled at me and said, “Leave them alone!” 
Perhaps the best thing I would ever experience was being taken care of by him when I got sick. He was the most caring, loving, and thoughtful father one would ever have. It felt so nice to be sick and get my father’s treatment. It felt like being rocked in cradle.
Anyway several years of being away from my province, I came back one day as an adult who needed a proof of residency to enjoy the privilege of visiting local tourist destinations. Since I didn’t really spend my growing up years in my town, the local people did not recognize me. So when I went to the municipal hall to apply for a residence certificate, the man who was issuing it looked at me when he saw the name on my paper. He asked me, “Whose daughter are you?” And I proudly said, I’m a daughter of Eusebio….
There might be only a few of these special years I spent with my father but time would not be enough for me to recall his memories over and over again until your ears bleed listening to me as I recollect them one by one.
