the man i quite miss

He would come over at least once a week, dropping a call before he did. He'd stay for an hour or more, listening to me. No, he's not my lover. He brought me gifts on my special day, whether it was something I asked from him or not. Sometimes he would drop by our store to make a call, and I'd be glad to see him for a short while. He would talk with my dad, conversations I weren't so interested in yet. I was too young then.

He was the first grown up man I've met, the man my father introduced me without my consent, but then I later learned to love; the man I showed off my discovery of the notes I learned to play. He was the man who taught me the beautiful pieces I played during parties when people would gather around me and praise me for what my fingers beheld, the man who celebrated with us during my limelight moments, the man who saw me grow up to my early puberty years.

He was the man who drove us home that very silent rainy night when my mom passed away. Then he stopped coming. My dad needed all the silence and solitude in the world. Let alone a visitor for music sessions. And eventually I stopped playing the piano. He came over hardly ever, only to make a call when he happened to pass by our place.

The last time I saw him was on the newspaper. And the last time I heard of him was long ago in the jeepney, when I was sitting beside the driver and saw his ID bearing the same family name of the man I quite miss tonight. I heard some news, good and bad, but enough to make me happy to be in touch with him through some driver I just met.

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