My father got into a motorcycle accident last Friday. He was on his way to pick up my mother from school. Another motorcycle ran into him at an intersection, and he was laid flat on the side of the road with his foot stuck beneath the pedal. He went home with swollen ankles but, thankfully, without any major injuries.
My father just got a new motorcycle last June. He bought it despite our family needing the money to pay for my little brother’s hospital bills. He insisted we needed a motorcycle because, otherwise, who would pick up my mother and siblings from school? My father has been unemployed for as long as I can remember. His only “job” is to pick us all up from school or work.
I remember hearing the familiar hum of my father’s motorcycle every time he returned home. I don’t know how his vehicle makes a distinct sound from the other vehicles passing by on our street, but I can accurately tell if my father’s motorcycle is nearing our gate.
That Friday afternoon, I did not hear the familiar hum of his motorcycle. I knew the reason because my mother told me about the accident in a chat. I remember thinking about how much we would have to pay for the hospital bills instead of what kind of injuries my father had sustained.
When my father came home, I watched him silently hobble toward the door. He was slightly limping because of his swollen ankles. His tanned skin was a little darker than usual, and his eyes were hollow with some leftover fear.
“What happened, Pa?” I asked, as if I didn’t know. “Are you okay?” and “Did you get hurt?” were what I intended, but the words wouldn’t come out of my mouth.
“I got into an accident,” he simply replied.
If my mother were here, he’d probably act like a baby and list all the pain he was experiencing. At that moment, however, it was just the two of us, and only silence hung between us.
I did not ask for further details, and he mumbled that he needed a hot compress for his ankles. My mother would have immediately boiled some water if she were here. In fact, she told me in the chat to do just that, but I didn’t, so I watched my father get up from his seat with the expression of a wounded animal and prepare the hot compress for himself.
“What happened to the motorcycle?” I asked again.
“It won’t start, so it needs repair,” my father replied.
I simply nodded. I’ve never ridden behind his motorcycle since he bought it. It was my silent protest against his irresponsible purchase.
I retreated into my room when the silence between us stretched uncomfortably. I felt my chest tighten with the familiar feeling of anxiety. I thought I wouldn’t care, honestly. But thinking about never hearing the familiar hum of my father’s motorcycle again made me wish I’d ridden behind it at least once.
Allyson Espaldon is a graduate of BA Communication Arts from the University of the Philippines Mindanao. She was born and raised in Davao but still has a hard time navigating her way through the city. She loves cats, Taylor Swift, and writing anecdotes about her friends and family.