I wish there were visiting hours in heaven

Many times I catch myself wishing there were visiting hours in heaven. Even for an hour or two, every quarter, every semester, even once a year. What a holiday it would be to see my father again!

Many times, too, I imagine a dialog between my father and me on that blessed day that I would get a one-hour pass to visit him in heaven. Just like today, I visualize a face-to-face encounter with him.

The day before my visit, I will file a leave from work. I need to prepare. That day will be like Christmas and New Year’s Eve combined. Because it will be such a happy occasion, I will prepare my father’s favorite pancit mi-ke with longganisang pula and kintsay, put it in a basket with cold water. In the basket will be his favorite malukong (bowl) and mug and his all-time favorite dessert, tira-tira. I will carry them on my trip to heaven.

In heaven — I still don’t know how to get there, maybe via a time machine or through the reach of the imagination — the angels welcome me with a happy hymn. Their voices mix merrily with the fresh scent of paradise. I refrain myself from joining them in singing; though I know I am tempted to join the chorus because if there is one thing my father taught me, it is to sing. He and my mother taught me kundiman songs, harana pieces among other traditional medleys.

After my courtesy call with God, a sublime experience because His face dazzles in bright rays, the angels (some in pure white, others in colorful costumes) bring me to my father, who, I will learn later on, barely slept because he, too, is excited to see his Junior, even for a while. I will kiss my father’s hand and, just like when I was a child, I will melt in his arms.

“I miss you, Pang. I miss you every day in the last six years.”

My father, just like when he was still with us on earth, finds it temporarily hard to articulate his feelings that moment. What he lacks in words, he compensates with his warm touch. He has not let go of my hand. He then leads me to a long wooden bench facing a mountain veiled in clouds. Soft and scintillating are the rays of the sun that pierce through the clouds. The nippy, sweet breeze reminds me of the times my father and I would be seated on his wooden hammock under the himbaba-o tree in our backyard.

“Heaven is so much like the world of the living,” he begins to tell me in the vernacular. “Except that here, everything is beautiful, peaceful.”

“Do you get to celebrate your birthday in heaven?” I ask him with the innocence of a child. “Because last Sept. 14, Nanay celebrated your birthday. As usual, she left the house early on that day and went straight to McDonald’s in Cabuyao. She bought a burger and split it into two.  She ate the small portion and the bigger half she brought to you in the cemetery. She does that all the time — on your wedding anniversary, on her birthday, or every opportunity she gets to visit the town. She never fails to visit you. She always sings to you.”

My father smiles at the thought of the sweetness of his wife. “Please tell her I miss her, too. Send your mother my love,” he says.

“To answer your question, yes, we celebrate our birthdays here, too. More than that, we celebrate the date we enter heaven. The date of our death on earth is our birthday in heaven. On Jan. 18, my parents are preparing something for me.”

“Do you also get hungry here?” I ask him.

“Food is abundant in heaven, son,” he says.

“But maybe you miss your favorite pancit mi-ke,” I tell him as I prepare to lay the dish on the bench. “The mi-ke is still hot, Pang.” He helps himself with a bowl of the soupy dish, relishing the longganisang pula in it. In his mug I pour the cold water. He reaches for the basket and finds there the tira-tira. He smiles. He takes a bite and then giggles. Joy registers on his face.  I miss seeing that joy on his face. I miss the sound of his laughter. My mind’s eye takes note of that bliss, that will be my happiness quota for this lifetime.

I regale him with the lessons I learned from him as he munches on the sweet tira-tira. Many of life’s guideposts he shared with me over tira-tira when I was in my teens. Like how to still believe in the goodness of people even if many times I have been a recipient of unkindness. To this day, because my parents taught me by example, I tuck it well in my moral compass that love should be exclusive and anything that will run short of it is repelled and repealed.

“That’s good,” he tells me. “I am happy that you remember those lessons.”

“But there are times when I wish you were just home, Pang. To celebrate with you little milestones, simple joys that will make you happy.”

“I can only celebrate with you from here. I always take time to check on all of you.”

“Everything down there, many times, is all right,” I tell him. “Nanay is okay. My siblings, too. Even your grandchildren are good. Nikko finished college four years ago and is already working. Paopao and Nikki are also graduating from college. Paopao took up Nursing because you told her so. Gabby is in Grade 10 and wants to go to UST for Senior High, then take up Medicine. Alex is entering Grade 7. Nikkelle is in Grade 8.”

“I’m happy. I’m very happy to hear that. Thank you.”

“Pang, always, always, when I am overwhelmed with challenges, I wish to talk to you to get your advice, to hear your wisdom, or to simply just be with you. Thankfully, many times, I get to solve the problem because all I have to do is to think the way you would address a certain problem.”

“Do you have a concern that needs to be addressed?” he asks, the lines on his face become pronounced.

“Yes, yes, Pang, I have. But having you in front of me is already the answer. I cannot ask for more. I am grateful for this opportunity.” I melt again in my father’s arms.

Then the angels appear before us to signal that my one hour in heaven is already up. I start to fix the basket but my father requests if I can leave the pancit-mike and the tira-tira. He will share them with his friends and relatives.

“Please massage my feet next time I visit you, Pang. Just like the old times. And I will repay you with my rendition of your favorite Anak Dalita. Next visit, if I am lucky enough to be given the pass again, I will bring you your favorite arroz Valenciana,” I tell my father as I cage him in my embrace.

“Thank you. Take care, son,” my father tells me as he brings me to the exit gate of heaven. I bid God goodbye and thank Him for the opportunity. A big smile crosses my father’s face when he lets go of my hand.

On my way back to earth, my heart was leaping out of my chest in happiness.

I miss my father.

(For your new beginnings, please e-mail me at bumbaki@yahoo.com. I’m also on Twitter @bum_tenorio and Instagram @bumtenorio.

Have a blessed Sunday!)