Family Portrait
by Micah Granada
Watching my father rest in his bed in the corner of the aged room, I realized the weight of all the years he had behind him. He had always been a small man—his frame was humble but father-like, and it seemed as though his cancer made him look even smaller than I could recall. He looked like a sleeping newborn cramped on the side of the bed. I decided it was better to keep my distance by the door so as not to disturb him. I turned the knob softly, but his voice surprised me, “Aly…”
“Dad,” I said, trying to keep my voice as low as possible. “I didn’t know you were awake.”
“Well, now you know I am,” he said, with a weak smile. I tried to conceal the disappointment that overtook me for seeing him this frail, as well as the fright for what may happen in the operation. He needs reassurance, I said to myself. Don’t give him any more worries.
“Feelin’ better?” I said, immediately realizing how thoughtless it is of me to ask if he was feeling okay. Of course, he wasn’t.
“Not the best, but there’s really nothing to worry about. Don’t you have a duty at the hospital today?”
“I asked Julius to take my place; it isn’t really busy at the hospital these days,” I said, despite knowing all too well that every day is a busy day for public hospitals.
“Julius? How’s he?” he asked. I can see he was trying to make me feel light and normal, but my heart was getting heavier as we talked, and the lumps in my throat could no longer keep themselves intact.
“He’s fine,” I briefly answered to cut the conversation short. He didn’t need to see me cry. “Get your rest, Dad; I’ll be here in the kitchen if you need me,” I said before he could ask any more questions.
It was hard to miss the dismay in his face as I turned my glimpse away. “Alright but wait for your mom. She went to the market.”
I closed the door as quietly as I can as if any sound that I make can further damage his deteriorating condition. Each step away from his room felt like kilometers of growing distance from the father I had known. I was still perhaps clouded by the myth of the invulnerable parent one is inclined to believe in his childhood. I had been an optimistic child, subjected to the belief that her parents were superheroes—and I guess it’s something inherent to young people. Adulthood is something young people dream of until it slaps them straight at the face; only then will they realize they’d do everything to remain as a child. My father once told me that children are the luckiest people, and he was probably right.
I sat on the chair closest to the window and tried to remember the happiest memories I had of my father. He used to take me to the park every Sunday back when I was roughly seven, and along with my sisters, we’d look for the perfect spot in the grass to put our blanket. I remembered mocking my sister for drinking from the bottle I used to collect tiny grasshoppers, and I gave her the title Grasshopper Eater in jest. Some days, I watched my father paint outside the house. I could still vividly recall the way his canvas comes to life with every stroke; it was a magic trick for my little mind. But many people devalued his artistry as a laughingstock, and I grew up secretly adopting the same opinion. I didn’t understand what his art meant to him.
It was his passion for art that distanced him from my grandfather, and after years, I realized that it was the very reason why I got closer to my grandfather than to him. Mom told me that Grandad’s dream was for him to pursue medicine, like many fathers of their generation who crave success, but my father made sure it didn’t happen. My grandfather told me that you could never make a living out of painting, and I started to blame my father for being naïve. I refused to talk to my father for a week after my grandfather died because I felt like he had wronged my grandfather for not resolving their issues—I felt like it was his fault for insisting on his ambition.
The windows revealed the emptiness of the house, with the specks of dust covering most of the surface. The walls—jeweled by father’s paintings—resemble a visual art gallery. I couldn’t help but notice the change of color in the paintings of my father throughout the years. As a child, I used to see him paint meadows and sun-streaked mountains, but I noticed that some of the pictures—I reckoned the recent ones because the strokes had become sloppier—were dominantly grayish. The paintings had become quiet and pensive. I stared at one of the paintings until I realized what the dull and leaden color unveiled—my father’s loneliness. A tinge of guilt ran through my chest as I realized how lonely my parents must’ve felt, constantly growing white hairs with all their children out of sight. I sighed, thinking it was all inevitable, yet sadness overcame me still. My parents insisted on staying in this house, despite my offer to provide them a new one, somewhere else. I couldn’t blame them for wanting this sort of peace. Even I would choose to escape the rush of the city, had I been given the choice.
Several empty bottles of San Miguel Pale Pilsen occupied the right side of the area below the kitchen sink. I put them inside a plastic bag one by one, thinking that if only my father listened to me, if only he stopped being childish, none of this would’ve happened.
“Dad,” I said, trying to keep my voice as low as possible. “I didn’t know you were awake.”
“Well, now you know I am,” he said, with a weak smile. I tried to conceal the disappointment that overtook me for seeing him this frail, as well as the fright for what may happen in the operation. He needs reassurance, I said to myself. Don’t give him any more worries.
“Feelin’ better?” I said, immediately realizing how thoughtless it is of me to ask if he was feeling okay. Of course, he wasn’t.
“Not the best, but there’s really nothing to worry about. Don’t you have a duty at the hospital today?”
“I asked Julius to take my place; it isn’t really busy at the hospital these days,” I said, despite knowing all too well that every day is a busy day for public hospitals.
“Julius? How’s he?” he asked. I can see he was trying to make me feel light and normal, but my heart was getting heavier as we talked, and the lumps in my throat could no longer keep themselves intact.
“He’s fine,” I briefly answered to cut the conversation short. He didn’t need to see me cry. “Get your rest, Dad; I’ll be here in the kitchen if you need me,” I said before he could ask any more questions.
It was hard to miss the dismay in his face as I turned my glimpse away. “Alright but wait for your mom. She went to the market.”
I closed the door as quietly as I can as if any sound that I make can further damage his deteriorating condition. Each step away from his room felt like kilometers of growing distance from the father I had known. I was still perhaps clouded by the myth of the invulnerable parent one is inclined to believe in his childhood. I had been an optimistic child, subjected to the belief that her parents were superheroes—and I guess it’s something inherent to young people. Adulthood is something young people dream of until it slaps them straight at the face; only then will they realize they’d do everything to remain as a child. My father once told me that children are the luckiest people, and he was probably right.
I sat on the chair closest to the window and tried to remember the happiest memories I had of my father. He used to take me to the park every Sunday back when I was roughly seven, and along with my sisters, we’d look for the perfect spot in the grass to put our blanket. I remembered mocking my sister for drinking from the bottle I used to collect tiny grasshoppers, and I gave her the title Grasshopper Eater in jest. Some days, I watched my father paint outside the house. I could still vividly recall the way his canvas comes to life with every stroke; it was a magic trick for my little mind. But many people devalued his artistry as a laughingstock, and I grew up secretly adopting the same opinion. I didn’t understand what his art meant to him.
It was his passion for art that distanced him from my grandfather, and after years, I realized that it was the very reason why I got closer to my grandfather than to him. Mom told me that Grandad’s dream was for him to pursue medicine, like many fathers of their generation who crave success, but my father made sure it didn’t happen. My grandfather told me that you could never make a living out of painting, and I started to blame my father for being naïve. I refused to talk to my father for a week after my grandfather died because I felt like he had wronged my grandfather for not resolving their issues—I felt like it was his fault for insisting on his ambition.
The windows revealed the emptiness of the house, with the specks of dust covering most of the surface. The walls—jeweled by father’s paintings—resemble a visual art gallery. I couldn’t help but notice the change of color in the paintings of my father throughout the years. As a child, I used to see him paint meadows and sun-streaked mountains, but I noticed that some of the pictures—I reckoned the recent ones because the strokes had become sloppier—were dominantly grayish. The paintings had become quiet and pensive. I stared at one of the paintings until I realized what the dull and leaden color unveiled—my father’s loneliness. A tinge of guilt ran through my chest as I realized how lonely my parents must’ve felt, constantly growing white hairs with all their children out of sight. I sighed, thinking it was all inevitable, yet sadness overcame me still. My parents insisted on staying in this house, despite my offer to provide them a new one, somewhere else. I couldn’t blame them for wanting this sort of peace. Even I would choose to escape the rush of the city, had I been given the choice.
Several empty bottles of San Miguel Pale Pilsen occupied the right side of the area below the kitchen sink. I put them inside a plastic bag one by one, thinking that if only my father listened to me, if only he stopped being childish, none of this would’ve happened.
"That's a bleeding tumor," my co-resident said, pointing to the suspicious mass on the left side of a patient's brain imaging.
"Most likely," I said, trying so hard to shift my focus back to the tests to be conducted after the assessment. "The only option is to operate and take out the mass."
"Right," he said, studying my reflection in the mirror on his side. "You okay?" he asked, trying not to sound so concerned.
"I have no choice but to be okay," I sighed, taking in more air than I could exhale. I tried to keep my thoughts together. "His surgery's tomorrow; what if something goes wrong?" I said, more like a request for assurance than a question.
"Your worrying won't help your father; you just gotta be strong for him. Besides, we've got the best doctors here," he said with a smile, revealing his white teeth. "What you need now is rest. I'll take care of this."
I walked along the deserted hallway leading to my office, and for the first time in my stay at the hospital, I felt like a child uncertain of direction. I had always been meticulous with every step. For the past eight years, every gesture of my hand during operations was a calculated decision. But that day, I felt like I had earned the right to be incompetent, to be clueless, to be fragile.
"Most likely," I said, trying so hard to shift my focus back to the tests to be conducted after the assessment. "The only option is to operate and take out the mass."
"Right," he said, studying my reflection in the mirror on his side. "You okay?" he asked, trying not to sound so concerned.
"I have no choice but to be okay," I sighed, taking in more air than I could exhale. I tried to keep my thoughts together. "His surgery's tomorrow; what if something goes wrong?" I said, more like a request for assurance than a question.
"Your worrying won't help your father; you just gotta be strong for him. Besides, we've got the best doctors here," he said with a smile, revealing his white teeth. "What you need now is rest. I'll take care of this."
I walked along the deserted hallway leading to my office, and for the first time in my stay at the hospital, I felt like a child uncertain of direction. I had always been meticulous with every step. For the past eight years, every gesture of my hand during operations was a calculated decision. But that day, I felt like I had earned the right to be incompetent, to be clueless, to be fragile.
My mind reeled with all possible measures they hadn’t considered. The doctor might be wrong; he’s just human, after all. My mother’s silent cry beside me drowned my thoughts, and my heart flared with seething anger and helplessness. Leaving my sobbing mother in the corner, I walked towards the room where my father was, deciding which words needed to be uttered.
I turned the knob to his room in the ward and quietly sat at his bedside. I tried my best to convince myself that inside those sagging skin was the father I knew. The thought of his lungs and heart straining behind his ribs dissolves my sanity. It was his liver that I despised the most.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said, startling me. “‘I told you so, Dad,’” he said, mimicking my usual know-it-all tone.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” I said, not knowing what else to say, or what better way to say it.
“Don’t apologize for something that isn’t your fault,” he said in a serious tone. I stared at him until I could no longer put up a carefree façade in front of my father.
I turned the knob to his room in the ward and quietly sat at his bedside. I tried my best to convince myself that inside those sagging skin was the father I knew. The thought of his lungs and heart straining behind his ribs dissolves my sanity. It was his liver that I despised the most.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said, startling me. “‘I told you so, Dad,’” he said, mimicking my usual know-it-all tone.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” I said, not knowing what else to say, or what better way to say it.
“Don’t apologize for something that isn’t your fault,” he said in a serious tone. I stared at him until I could no longer put up a carefree façade in front of my father.
I never thought it is possible for the house to feel any emptier. The walls whispered of the many things I should’ve said to him, like how much I missed his jokes, or that I still remembered the sound of his voice on the recording when he sang Depeche Mode’s “Somebody” to my mother.
I stayed at the house for days, accompanying my grieving mother until we could both walk on our own again. My sisters left the day after the funeral, so I decided to sit outside when my mother went out to avoid the drowning emptiness of the house. Some days, I’d brave a look at the paintings and try to understand it as much as I could—maybe my father intended one of them to tell me something. But some days, they just felt like voices reminding me of the chances I wasted not getting to know my father well.
I woke up one morning to the sound of a rooster crowing. I needed to arrange my things because I was to leave that afternoon. I told myself he was probably out there, painting a landscape in the garden, or sleeping in his room, or somewhere else helping out my mother. My heart persisted, which seemed like the only thing it was capable of doing that day.
I found myself unwittingly walking towards his room. I turned the knob, ever so gently, trying to make sense of the odds that I’d find my father there. I felt stupid for being so disappointed. Sitting in his bed, I tried to recall how it felt like when he was still here. The room had the same scent.
I saw a canvas facing back on the corner of the room, and I picked it up. I expected to see a painting of a meadow or a mountaintop, but instead, I saw faces smiling at me. It was our family portrait. I didn’t even know he painted anything more than landscapes. But this painting looked surreal—as if we weren’t humans but astral projections—with the colors invading my senses and soul at the same time. It was hard to look at each of our faces without shedding tears. The emptiness of the house that had engulfed me drowned me at the presence of my father’s painting, and I felt as if it was not the canvas I held in my hands, but my father’s hands.
I stayed at the house for days, accompanying my grieving mother until we could both walk on our own again. My sisters left the day after the funeral, so I decided to sit outside when my mother went out to avoid the drowning emptiness of the house. Some days, I’d brave a look at the paintings and try to understand it as much as I could—maybe my father intended one of them to tell me something. But some days, they just felt like voices reminding me of the chances I wasted not getting to know my father well.
I woke up one morning to the sound of a rooster crowing. I needed to arrange my things because I was to leave that afternoon. I told myself he was probably out there, painting a landscape in the garden, or sleeping in his room, or somewhere else helping out my mother. My heart persisted, which seemed like the only thing it was capable of doing that day.
I found myself unwittingly walking towards his room. I turned the knob, ever so gently, trying to make sense of the odds that I’d find my father there. I felt stupid for being so disappointed. Sitting in his bed, I tried to recall how it felt like when he was still here. The room had the same scent.
I saw a canvas facing back on the corner of the room, and I picked it up. I expected to see a painting of a meadow or a mountaintop, but instead, I saw faces smiling at me. It was our family portrait. I didn’t even know he painted anything more than landscapes. But this painting looked surreal—as if we weren’t humans but astral projections—with the colors invading my senses and soul at the same time. It was hard to look at each of our faces without shedding tears. The emptiness of the house that had engulfed me drowned me at the presence of my father’s painting, and I felt as if it was not the canvas I held in my hands, but my father’s hands.
Micah Granada is a freshman creative writing student from University of the Philippines-Diliman. She was a campus journalist during high school and has been exploring different genres of writing.