I drive over the back roads of Amsterdam and Fort Plain and Perth, unsure of where precisely I am, following a road that my father once stopped at to show us ducks at a little pond after breakfast at Windsor’s restaurant. The pond is still there, and there is a sign near the road that says ‘Duck Crossing’ with a family of ducks pictured on it. Dad used to bring us here on Sunday mornings to look at the birds, knowing how they would fascinate me. Slowing the car, I see that there is a swan and several ducks still there – different animals, obviously, than the ones I saw four decades ago, but the scene is the same, and I go back in time to be next to my father again. 

Before heading home to Albany, I drive out past the Thruway exit into Florida, past more farmland, past the veterinarian where our first dog, who belonged to Dad before Mom or Paul or I arrived, was given shots and finally put to sleep. It’s still an animal clinic. The afternoon sun is low in the sky, lending a rosy warmth to its light – the most beautiful times of its journey bracketing the day. 

For some reason, these roads and this land always felt more like Dad to me than his birthplace in the Philippines. He certainly spent many more years here, though I understood that the formative years of youth sometimes supplant time and distance. Seeking any way to be close to him again, I drive along the roads he once drove along, trying to feel my way into his previous life, trying to feel my way back to him. 

A wild turkey flies over the road in front of me, landing in a cornfield. Its wings and feathers are beautiful in the evening sunlight – browns and creams, ribbed with power and might. I wonder what my father saw on his early trips here. What did he find that might make it seem like home? A job and career, sure, but that could happen anywhere if one looked. How did he know this would make such a good home for us?

I remember my first and only trip to the Philippines, and the way I tried to find my father there in the landscape and streets and people. There was reverent talk of him by his relatives, and whispers of admiration almost tinged with awe, all glowing. He was my protection and talisman against injury even in his absence. My Uncle left me mostly on my own on that trip, but family took me in and showed me around. I understood Dad just a little better then, had seen where he was born and grew up, and compared it with where we grew up. Children wouldn’t have noticed enough of a difference to be bothered by it, but maybe it’s easier to say that from my privileged side of things. 

In upstate NY, the roads feel like my father to me. A mystery imbued each, as I didn’t know where they led, or what secrets they had hidden in the expanses of corn or leaves or forest or streams that meandered by their side. It was all beautiful though, and it would be beautiful even when the desolation of winter arrived. Did he stay here because of beauty? 

My brother and I are now roughly the age my Dad was when he had us. I cannot imagine the idea of having a baby at this point in my life, though my brother has just done that, forming a perfect little continuation of Ilagan lineage. Time becomes tricky when you lose someone – tricky in ways that can be both troublesome and comforting. The older I got, the more I could understand and relate to my Dad – and it’s one of the greatest gifts in my life that we grew ever closer as we each grew ever older. There was still more to do, but there would have always been more to do. It only ends in small part now. At least I tell myself that, to make it easier, to make it bearable. 

Winding back along the fields nearing their harvest, I drive through my tears, watering the memory of my father, paying tribute to the beautiful life he gave to us, searching out some meaning in missing him, and grateful for the grief, grateful for the love. It was still there between us, still there in the sublime evening light. 

Dear Dad –

When I was very little, you used to peel grapes for me. Maybe you remembered how sour the skin tasted when you were a kid, or maybe you just preferred them skinless yourself – whatever the reason, you would peel them and give them to me as we sat on the couch together watching television. At the time, I just remember how lovely it was to be next to you, and to taste the extra-sweet grapes shorn of their tart wrapping. Only now, decades later, do I feel how much love and care there was in this little act. And that’s how so much of my childhood went with you. Little, quiet acts of love that made me and Paul and Mom aware of your affection for us.  

When I was in first grade, I used to get homesick in the few hours I had to be at school. Looking back, it was probably the first signs of social anxiety, coupled with whatever separation anxiety I was feeling. Mostly I missed you and Mom, and I simply felt lost without you. When it got bad, the tears would well in my eyes, and I would look up at the fluorescent lights, opening my eyes wide and hoping that would dry them faster. As long as they didn’t start falling, I thought I would be ok. 

Some days proved too much, and I would have to go to the nurse and be sent home. On one of these days, you had to get me in between your hospital cases, then bring me with you to St. Mary’s while you went in for an operation. I sat in a wood-paneled room while one of the nuns talked to me a little to try to figure out what was wrong. It wasn’t something I could put into words – I just needed to be close to you and Mom. You came back and brought me home, explaining the importance of going to school, and though you were stern, you also managed to comfort me. You could tell I was scared, and as much as you worked to toughen me up, you somehow did it with kindness and care.

You were also our protector. I remember the night we returned from OTB or work while Mom was at school, and the door to the house was unlocked and slightly ajar. You told us to stay close to you while you took a knife from the kitchen, shushed our immediate and persistent questions, then rushed us back out when you thought someone might be in the house. We stuck close while walking around the corner of the house in the near darkness… feeling a slight tinge of worry, and then the reassurance of you in front of us. 

And I remember the front of the house, and you trying to hang Christmas lights – our very first string at the tail end of the 1970’s, the kind with the big hot bulbs that modern technology could never quite touch or replicate. It was always an ordeal, untangling and finding which ones weren’t working, but in the end they always ended up perfectly hung and displayed for the season. It was not an ordeal without swearing and frustration, and neither was the opening of the pool every year, back when you did it yourself with our hapless help. The memories now feel happy and sweet, and our own frustration and misunderstanding falls away. 

There is also the joyous memory of you going swimming with us – once a year, for Father’s Day usually – and it made those days that much more special. Even during family vacations, we couldn’t always get you on the beach, but every once in a while you’d come down with your hat and sunglasses and a paper in your hand. That’s the way you were in our childhood – a source of consistency and support, if often unseen. Most fathers are a mystery, and you were no different. 

When your parents died, you went back to the Philippines for the services, and I remember being so scared that your plane would crash that I couldn’t concentrate on anything. Losing you or Mom has been my primal fear since I was cognizant. There was a day when Paul wanted you to go bowling but you complained that your arm hurt. You took him anyway, and I spent the entire afternoon certain that you were about to have a heart attack. I never told you that because it seemed so silly. 

You told us a few stories from your childhood in the Philippines, most of which were designed to make us behave and be grateful for what we had here, but so much of it remains shrouded in mystery. When I went there for the first time with Uncle Roberto, I saw the places and life you were talking about, and I understood a little better. Still, I wonder what you felt there, whether you missed it ever, and what it might mean to you all these years later. It wasn’t your way to talk so directly, so we never found out. 

We learned not to need your direct engagement, but we always wanted you there. In so many ways, you were our foundation – quietly strong, consistently supportive, even if not outwardly demonstrative. And somehow, we never doubted your love, because it was there always, in all other ways. 

I called you once from my first semester at college, and you must have sensed the desperation in my voice. I only needed to hear you or Mom talk for a bit to get myself together, but you asked very earnestly if I wanted to come home. You’d gone to schools on your own in entirely different countries halfway around the world from your home – you knew how lonely it could get, you knew how soul-crushing is might feel, and you offered comfort. Somehow I knew if I said yes I’d never grow up, and it was enough to know you had given me that option. 

A couple years later I’d come down with mono and frantically call you and Mom from my dorm room because I knew something wasn’t right. After making it to the infirmary and passing out, I woke up the next day to see the both of you at the foot of my bed, and even in my confusion I felt your concern and love. You drove three hours because you knew I’d been calling. 

At every family event and gathering – wedding or anniversary or funeral – you would be my safe person – the one I could count on to share a moment in silence, or laughter, or complaint, and you made me feel ok and less anxious. Just by being there. 

For my whole life, you’ve been that silent supporter – sometimes literally shoving cash in my hand after you won big at OTB, and sometimes in ways more vast and substantial. Throughout it all, we never doubted your love, and that love saw me through whatever difficulty I was facing. That’s what the very best fathers provide, and for me you will always be the best father. 

This is a goodbye for now, but more than that a letter of thanks – for all the love you have given me over the years, even when I didn’t always deserve it. You respected me in the same way that I respected you, and I always felt it. We have been lucky to have you in our lives for this long – and 92 years on earth is an amazing achievement.

I am going to miss you, Dad. It feels like you’ve been slipping away for a long time, that we’ve been saying good-bye for several years, but there was always the chance you would be your old self, and every once in a while your smile would come back, your focus would return, and the glint in your eye would catch mine like I was a little kid again. We won’t get to see that anymore, but you’ve put in a long stretch here, and it’s ok for you to let go of the work. You have fought hard and well, perhaps in an effort to be here for us, knowing how difficult it would be for us to let you go. We will always love you for that, and for everything you have given to us, but it’s time for you to relax, and you’ve earned the right to a rest. 

I love you, Dad.

~ For my father ~ Dr. Emiliano Ilagan (1930 ~ 2023)