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.
