Dad

Today is my father's death anniversary. I was walking by Marbay here when I chanced upon one of market's fixture. I knew her as a seller of socks when she herself has not changed her socks for maybe weeks. Man, she looked horrible now. One of her eyes is almost clouded over and her face has been ravaged by the hard times. Still selling socks by the side of the stairs. I passed by her and agonized over her. I remembered my father and his socks. I went back to the sock seller. Got a black pair of socks which probably sells for P10 and gave her P100 and just left. I am reading "Fires" by Raymond Carver. I remembered buying Carver's "Where I'm Calling From" in San Francisco ten years ago. My friend Luisa Igloria (then still Carino) said that I will eventually outgrow Carver's poems. Ten years later, I am still reading him. Carver's melancholia is so like mine though he always reminds me of my Dad. My father doesn't drink though but he acts like he always has a hangover. My father died in his sleep.
Someone once asked Carver is he is religious.

"No, but I have to believe in miracles and the possibility of resurection. No question about that. Every day that I wake up, I'm glad to wake up. That's why I like to wake up early. "