I’ve always had so much respect for musicians because being able to sing, write songs, and create melodies is a fascinating facet of what it means to be human. But music can also untangle your deeply hidden vulnerabilities. Suddenly, every lyric and beat makes you feel like you’re under a microscope of your own gaze. For a long time, SB19’s ‘Mapa’ has been a fixture in my playlist. But ever since my father passed away, that very same track has felt like my own broken promise to my parents, so much so that I haven’t been able to hit play since.

The stages of growing up

Kids go through several stages in their relationship with their parents—or at least, that’s how it felt for me growing up. Whenever my parents bought me toys, they instantly turned into superheroes in my eyes, ready to save the family from my insufferable tantrums. 

And then came puberty, a rite of passage for any teenager, where every bit of inconvenience or question from my parents felt like a Sunday mass. Thanks, hormonal changes. When I hit my twenties, life patiently taught me that my parents were raising us, giving everything they could, the best way they knew how. 

My dad often forgot my job title, to the point that he’d frequently ask my mom for a quick refresher. But even with the occasional forgetfulness that came with age, my mom would always tell me that my dad never once forgot to express how proud he was of me, especially to his colleagues, friends, and even other relatives. 

The only times I ever saw him break

I’ve only seen my dad cry up close a few times. The first time was during my college graduation, when students went to their loved ones to hand out flowers, as the ceremony’s song ripped to its climax. Mom and Dad were crying as I thanked them for their unwavering support—the sacrifices they had to make just so I could be where I am today.

The second time was on the day my mom had her open-heart surgery. My dad was distraught, uneasy. I can still picture him praying in the small chapel—yet he never once showed me he was scared. It’s been over a decade since then, and my mom is still here, living a normal life supported by lifelong medication she now manages with phone alarms.

The third time happened while I was at the office during my lunch break. I got a call from my mom. She was already crying before I could even speak. In between sobs, my mom told me that my dad had cancer. It didn’t take long before I heard my dad’s voice on the other end of the line. I couldn’t see him, but I knew he was crying, too. He told me that he would fight it and undergo all the necessary treatment to get better. 

Growing up, I prided myself on seeing things through a lens of strict realism. But at that moment, I clung to every word he said—just like when he promised the eight-year-old me that he’d bring home trinkets after work.

Who deserves unsaid goodbyes?

My dad passed away a week before their 28th wedding anniversary. He died as my mom gently caressed his head. But even with tubes down his throat, my dad still tried to say something. Maybe it was ‘be strong,’ ‘take care,’ or ‘I love you.’ My mom nodded because her heart could still hear, assuring him that we would be fine—that he could now rest.

I didn’t know life could be that cruel to two people who had known nothing but how to love and support each other. To think that even in his last breath, his illness took away his chance to say goodbye. 

The first thing I did was hug my mom and cry. Later, my mom would say that she had never seen me cry like that. Ever. But what my mom didn’t know was that I sobbed harder after she and my sister left to talk to the nurses to sort things out. I kept saying “sorry” to my dad, like it was the only word I knew—because part of me felt I had failed terribly. Frankly, I still do to this day. 

Endless loops and stitches

I didn’t cry when my dad was finally laid to rest in the cemetery. Not because I couldn’t, but because I didn’t know where to start mourning. 

Should I begin with how my dad’s sickness took away his ability to walk? That moment when we were rushing him to the hospital, weakly calling out for my mom because his breathing was getting more ragged? When my dad lost that warmth in his eyes, could barely chew his food, and spent most of his days lying in bed? How do you mourn?

One of the Grey’s Anatomy episodes that hits me the hardest was in Season 4, Episode 14, titled ‘The Becoming.’ I won’t go into much detail, but that scene was probably one of Cristina Yang’s (played by Sandra Oh) most defining moments on the series. 

Weirdly enough, I thought of her monologue in that episode during my father’s wake. Then I dug deeper, and it dawned on me why. At the time, Cristina’s lines had that one word that seemed to describe what it felt like to lose something or someone you love: unbearable. 

Life felt the same, but different. And as days went by, grief hit me like shards of glass repeatedly sewn into every fiber of my being, in endless loops and stitches. Now, I don’t think ‘unbearable’ fits as a description of loss anymore. I don’t think I could find a word that does.

When the map loses its way

I’m the type of person who pictures countless scenarios when I listen to music. And as someone who writes both as a passion and for a living, those ‘visions’ usually help me create. For me, SB19’s ‘Mapa’ is one of the best songs ever made. I’m a sucker for ballads, too, so SB19 barely had to lift a finger to make the song go quadruple platinum in my playlist when it was released. 

My parents’ dreams were simple. My mom would always tell me she wanted to own a house big enough to run a humble sari-sari store or food business with dad. They wanted to make sure we wouldn’t have to financially support them, especially since they also had their hard-earned pension. As for us three siblings, we’d be the referees whenever they bickered—whoever happened to be available.

Ever since my father passed away, I’ve stopped listening to ‘Mapa.’ Don’t get me wrong, I still love the song. I really do. ‘Mapa’ is all about giving back to the parents who raised us, taking the reins this time so they can rest. Yet, I always feel this pang of not being able to do enough.

My parents only wanted to live a simple, peaceful life together, and I couldn’t even give a fraction of that.

An editorial on a parallel universe

This year marks the second Father’s Day without my dad dropping hilarious one-liners or stories about his co-workers while we’re all gathered around the dining table, celebrating the occasion over my mom’s cooking.

Sometimes, my mom would tell me how much she misses Dad, and I wouldn’t know how to respond. In my mind, my dad is somewhere far away—a house by the beach, with his TV permanently tuned to his favorite action movies and basketball games. I call it the “writer’s curse,” but in reality, it’s just another so-called beautiful nickname for my trauma response. 

There are days when I’ll search ‘Mapa’ and tell myself I should listen to it again. Then I retreat. At this point, it’s a cycle, and while I have no idea how this constant back-and-forth will work, there’s one thing I’m sure of. 

I’m not ready to listen to it yet. 

Between facing the reality that my dad is gone and letting my thoughts immortalize him in a perfect parallel universe, I’m choosing the latter. For now, it’s the only way I see to forgive myself and heal.

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