Dearest Amang,

Not a day passes that I don’t think of you.

When I open the morning paper, I’d skim over news items and think, “How would you have reacted to this and that issue?” You see it’s not just you as my father that I miss, but you as a national leader as well.

But today, on Father’s Day, I miss having you as my father to talk and listen to. Every time I entered a room to consult you about something, I’d leave more enlightened and assured of what needs to be done.

Despite your busy schedule, I never ever heard you snap at your children: “Not now. I’m too busy!” Your patience was simply remarkable. Even today, I would always hear your former associates and staff say, “Si Ka Blas, kahit kailan di ko nakitang nagalit.” (“I never saw Ka Blas get mad.”) In the dog-eat-dog world of politics, you were never the one to harbor personal hatred.

When I was a little girl, you would entertain guests over coffee in our living room at the old house in Project 6. Most of the time, your guests were labor leaders, whose spouses also became close to Mommy. They would have breakfast with you at our round table, while a long line of people waited outside, each with a favor to ask.

I remember going up to you and handing over a puzzle of metal rings that I couldn’t piece together. It was a cheap brain-test puzzle to test one’s IQ. You accepted the metal pieces and without a beat, sorted it together while conversing with your friends. The instructions that came with the puzzle said that anyone who could piece it within minutes qualifies as a genius. You did it without even reading the instructions. That incident, more than anything I heard people say about you during my childhood – that incident with the puzzle assured me that you were indeed an extraordinary man.

I also remember when you took me on a helicopter ride to Davao. I think I was just 9 years old. You would point to mountains and say something that got drowned out by the noise. I didn’t care. I was looking out my window. I was flying high. And you were on the front seat, just as excited as I was.

Fast-forward to Harvard. 1999. It was my graduation. Despite your frail physical condition, you and Mommy stayed until the end of the ceremony, despite the sun and summer heat. After obtaining my master’s degree from Kennedy School, I was poised to flap my wings, and search the horizon for a new nest to roost. You zapped that idea outright. “I give you two weeks then you need to come home.” Gone was my plan to try out for internships at the World Bank or at the Foreign Affairs Digest. It meant putting my dream of writing a novel and having it published in America on hold.

I went home, was all the better for it, especially since my education continued but this time as one of your trusted assistants. Together with Mila, your longtime secretary, we sought to make life easier for you – sorting out your schedules, looking after technical details and reports, drafting press statements and minor speeches, making sure all kinds of obligations (to constituents, Bulacan leaders, and of course, the family) were met.

When you accepted the President’s offer to serve as Secretary of Foreign Affairs, I knew it was in fulfillment of a long-time dream. Some people scoffed that you were too old for the job. Yet, you showed up at the Department of Foreign Affairs, walking slowly but every purposive step prompted by the zeal to make a difference.

I remember how thoughtful your questions were, when the senior staff went over to brief you about a forthcoming diplomatic engagement. You were respectful towards the staff, was accommodating when their answers left much to be desired, and yet quite specific as to what you wanted them to do. You weren’t just their boss, you were also their teacher.

I miss that too. The clarity that comes when you think things through, and consult matters with trusted and just as equally competent friends – it is that kind of clarity that makes your writings illuminating, relevant, and memorable even to this very day. It is a gift that eludes many. Because clarity is all about making tough choices, omitting noise so that the melody of a fine idea is heard. You were never petty or nonchalant about making such choices. Statesmanship was a natural attribute because you had no other agenda but to serve your country.

In the end, when you were gasping for breath inside the plane bound for Bahrain, I wasn’t there to hold your hand, to keep you steady, to help you slip through life perhaps in a more comfortable and dignified fashion. And so, I write to you now on Father’s Day, to say thank you. You have been a wonderful father and an excellent mentor, not just to me, but also to hundreds and thousands more whom you met in your lifetime.

I love you, Amang. Happy Father’s Day!