There were many other stories—things that sounded almost supernatural—connected to my father’s portrait. I brushed them all aside. I was used to hearing stories like that whenever someone had died, and the family had not yet formally ended the mourning period.

“I just got back, Pa. I won’t be returning to Japan until next month. I’ve missed you so much.”

That was what I usually did whenever I visited my father’s house. I would take his portrait down, hold it in my hands, and talk to him. I made sure no one else could hear me, or they might think I was losing my mind. My aunts probably knew I did it. I even kept the picture beside me while I slept and carried it into the kitchen whenever I ate. I only hung it back on the wall when I was about to leave.

“Your house is terribly dirty, Papa. Cleaning it wore me out. Now I’m hungry. Come on, let’s go to the kitchen. I’m going to boil some water. We’ll have coffee, and I’ll let you taste these super spicy noodles I brought home.”

My father’s expression in the portrait seemed to brighten after I said that. I shrugged it off, thinking that maybe I was only tired and hungry, and that was why it looked as if the face in the picture had changed.

It was also possible that my mind had been influenced by all the stories they kept telling about the portrait, so I imagined things even when nothing had really changed.

“You’re all show, Pa. You keep making your presence felt, but you don’t actually want to appear. Come on, let’s go to the kitchen.”

I set the portrait on the table and propped it upright against the wall, facing the chair I sat in.

“Now just relax there, Pa. I’ll do the cooking. You’re a bit unfair, you know. Back then, you were always the one who cooked whenever I came here. So what now? You won’t get to taste the longganisa I brought. Sorry about that. But I suppose you can still smell it.”

It was already dark, so I turned on the kitchen light. Outside, the rain and the wind grew stronger.

A sudden gust of wind rushed through the house. Something slammed hard, and the light went out. When I turned toward the table, I saw in the dim light that my father’s portrait I had placed there was now lying facedown.

The bulb must have blown out.

I went to the living room. Luckily, there was a spare bulb in the toolbox my older brother had left behind. When I returned to the kitchen, I replaced the bulb. As soon as the light came back on, I froze.

The portrait of my father—which had fallen face down just moments ago—was standing upright again.

The chill that ran through me this time was much stronger.

It was unsettling to see the portrait standing there as if nothing had happened. I took a deep breath, the way I always did when I was flustered and couldn’t think straight. I looked to my left, then to my right. Even behind me.

No one was there.

Slowly, I forced myself to walk toward the portrait.

The smile on my father’s face had vanished. He seemed to be staring at me with a serious expression. Was he annoyed that I had challenged him to appear, and now that he was only making his presence known, I was already getting scared?

Suddenly, I remembered something my grandmother used to say — that until the mourning period had been formally ended, the soul of the dead lingered around the house and made its presence felt to the people they loved.

“Oh, come on, Papa. You’re scaring me. Keep that up, and I’ll go home. You’ll be left here all alone.”

I said it jokingly, just to ease the fear that was beginning to creep over me. For a moment, I even thought of calling someone to come over. I wanted to call my cousin Boyet and ask him to keep me company.

“You must really want coffee, huh? That’s why you’re frowning. All right, just wait a bit, Pa. I’m fixing things up now.”

The gas tank and stove my father used to cook with were no longer there, so I boiled water using the old clay stove instead. Luckily, there was still firewood stacked underneath, and the rain hadn’t soaked it.

I washed the glasses and plates that had probably been sitting in the rack for a long time. Everything in my father’s kitchen had grown old.

Every now and then, I glanced back at the portrait while I worked. I kept waiting for something to happen. Maybe one of my cousins was playing a prank on me. Some of them loved fooling around just as much as I did. One of them must have stood the portrait back up. I even thought it might be Boyet.

“Boyet!… Boyet!… Cousin, come out now. Join Papa and me here.”

I waited.

No one came.

I made coffee — one cup for me, one for my father.

“Here you go, Papa. Your coffee. Good thing there was still some coffee and sugar left in your cabinet. The noodles are cooking too. Oh, wait, Pa — I need to get something from inside.”

I hurried to my bag and came back to the kitchen.

“Here, Pa. This is my gift for you. Chivas Regal. I bought it at the Duty Free. Two bottles. One for each of us. It’s eighteen years old, Pa — not twelve — so no complaints. Hehe.”

I was no longer as nervous when I noticed that the smile seemed to return to my father’s lips in the portrait. Again, I told myself my eyes were just playing tricks on me.

“Did you like the coffee, Pa? Oops… there’s a leak here too. I’m embarrassed I still haven’t had your house repaired. I don’t want my older brother and his drinking buddies turning this place into their hangout.”

At once, my father’s expression changed again. His forehead seemed to wrinkle, and the smile disappeared the moment I mentioned my brother. Our father had always hated it whenever my brother came here just to drink with his friends.

There really was something strange about that portrait.

His brow looked genuinely furrowed. Maybe those lines had always been there, and I just never noticed them before.

A few minutes more passed, and I just felt my fear had begun to fade. I was almost getting used to whatever was unusual I noticed in my father’s portrait.

“Aha, you cannot scare me anymore, alligator.” I jokingly said while glancing at the portrait.

When the noodles were done, I fried the Spam I had brought.

“Let’s eat first, Pa, before we start drinking. We’ve got a long conversation ahead of us tonight.”

“Marco… Marco… Is that you in there?… Marco.”

“Yes, Auntie. I’m here in the kitchen.”

It was Aunt Cecille.

She came in, and I took her hand, kissed it, then kissed her on the cheek.

“I thought it was your older brother again.”

My aunt wrapped her arms around my shoulders.

 “Well, look at this — Chivas Regal, and two bottles at that. What about us?”

“Of course, I brought something for you too, Auntie — red wine. It’s inside.”

“But who were you talking to? I could hear you talking to someone.”

“There he is behind you, Auntie. Say hello to Papa.”

“Hah!”

She turned toward the table, then suddenly straightened up.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! You startled me. You know how easily frightened I am. Now I won’t be able to go home by myself. You’ll have to walk me back.”

“Really?” I laughed.

“Go on, laugh.”

“There, have Papa escort you.”

“Oh, Marco, now you’re scaring me even more. I might not be able to sleep well. Just make sure you walk me home.”

I was still laughing. When I glanced at my father’s portrait, it looked as though he was smiling too.

“So you can also take the ginataang tulingan I cooked for you.”

“Wow! All right then, Auntie, I’ll walk you home. By the way, could you get the gifts I brought for all of you? They’re in the bedroom, inside the red plastic bag. Just divide them among yourselves. Are Aunt Claire and Aunt Carol there too?”

“Yes. They’ve been waiting for you for quite a while.”

Aunt Cecille went inside to get the gifts. I placed some of the cooked noodles into a bowl.

“You brought us a lot, Marco. Thank you.”

“Here, Auntie, try some of these Japanese noodles too.”

“Oh no, I can’t handle anything that spicy. Your aunt may be greedy when it comes to food, but not that greedy.”

“Auntie, I read your message earlier. Why don’t you want us to prepare something for tomorrow’s “babaang luksa”? I have a budget for it.”

“No need. Pancit palabok and bread will be enough. Let’s be practical. Besides, it’s rainy, people are busy, and no one wants to cook. There might not even be many visitors tomorrow with the storm coming. The food will only go to waste.”

“All right then. Just tell everyone that after the prayers tomorrow, we’ll have lunch at your favorite restaurant before I leave.”

“That’s exactly what we were hoping you’d say. Hehe.”

“Come on, Auntie, I’ll walk you home first. Papa, just wait for me, all right?”

“Oh, all right. Sorry for interrupting your father-and-son bonding. Hehe. Bye, Kuya.”

I noticed that Aunt Cecille didn’t look at my father’s portrait, which my father probably didn’t like, because in the picture, he seemed to be frowning again.

When I came back, I brought the ginataang tulingan my aunt had cooked, along with some rice.

“There we go — noodles, rice, ginataang tulingan… and Spam too.”

I poured Chivas into two glasses.

“This is for you, Papa… and this one’s for me. Cheers.”

After finishing my first shot, I took a bite of the ginataang tulingan and some rice. It tasted wonderful. It had been almost a year since I last ate that kind of fish.

I picked up a slice of the Spam I had fried.

“Here, Papa. You always told me to bring you Spam whenever I came home.”

I let myself pretend that my father was alive, sitting there with me, happy that I had come. He used to be like that whenever I visited him — lively, talkative, full of jokes. I placed a small saucer with tulingan and Spam beside his portrait.

Only then did I realize that tears were already welling from my eyes.

“You see, Papa? I’m still a crybaby, even now. It’s your fault. You left us too soon. All right… another shot. Finish yours too.”

After more than an hour, half the bottle was gone.

“Papa, do you remember the time you visited us? I couldn’t find San Mig Light, so I only bought Red Horse. Four bottles. One for me, three for you. Damn… you laughed so hard at me that night. I hadn’t even finished one bottle when I ended up vomiting and shitting my guts out. After that, I never touched Red Horse again. That thing kicks like a horse.”

I looked at my father’s portrait.

I could see the happiness on his face — or at least it seemed that way — as I drank. As we drank. He looked as though he was smiling, almost teasing me, every time I spoke, every time tears slipped from my eyes.

FATHER’S PORTRAIT – PART 3
(March 20, 2026)