THE GIFT OF A FATHER

Consider fathers who trekked great distances to school with no shoes on. Who always came first in their class. Who went against great odds to study, find a job, find your mom, and make a decent life for everybody involved. Who was strong in the face of adversity and wise when presented with great paradoxes of life. Who was your hero for as long as you remember; infallible, studious, unblemished, courageous, wise, measured? Who then gradually became just a man with flaws, fears and hesitations.

You don’t recall when he became a mere man before your eyes. Maybe it’s when you saw him cry at his father’s [your grandfather] funeral. Perhaps it's when you saw him fearful and vulnerable when your mother lay in the hospital bed after she had swallowed a fishbone that almost killed her. Maybe it was a banal happening; like the day he asked you, “Where do we start?” when your little teenage brother ran away from home.

Or maybe it’s when you went home to visit and that night, after dinner, he opened the bottle of 15-year-old Singleton and invited you to drink with him. Just the two of you. Odd. You thought he was dying. But he wasn't. That night you talked longer than you have ever conversed in one sitting.

And you learned a few things about him because you can learn about a man by how he drinks his whisky. And to think that he, a man in his early 70s, had the fine taste to pick the 15-year Singleton! Nobody needs convincing that that particular bottle is the better Singleton in the family because it’s balanced and even-tempered.

Your dad drank slowly, and thoughtfully, respecting the craft that’s gone into distilling beauty. He sometimes spoke gravely, of grave matters like “the need not to follow paths not trails.” [His exact words] That he could balance his glass on his bony knees the whole time defeated you. But then again, how he balanced feeding and schooling four children and scores of his relatives on a modest income was something short of a highwire act in itself. All these meant that he was steady and consistent as he had always been as a father.

He never poured more than a finger in his glass at any given time, showing restraint, a trait you saw a lot when he was faced with sticky situations. Like the day in high school when you were sent back home because a prefect had found a cigarette in your locker. (It was planted. You still insist). That night in his relations of life, he exhibited an even more maturity and depth as if mirroring his drink.

The night wore on. Your mother stuck her head around the door to say goodnight. The dogs barked less. The room became smaller and more intimate with each pour, each sip. Then suddenly, just as he was talking about his father, he fell silent as if catching himself from saying too much, from revealing too much of himself. His gaze remained on the carpet, a small smile playing on the corner of his lips. Then he said abruptly, “Well, this was fun. May the day break,” touched you on the knee, and went to bed.

Then it was just you and the 15-year-old Singleton, the bridge that had for the last hour and a half connected you to your father.

Now you knew what to get him for Father’s Day.