My special kid Nokie

WHEN I brought her to our annual retreat in Silang, Cavite sometime in 2004, Nene Guevara said Nokie -- then only a little over one year old -- looks just like her father. As Patricia Anne (Nokie's real name) is growing up, I think Nene is right: Nokie is indeed turning out to be a chip off the old block, or an old bloke, if you will.

The other night as I was to motor to the central bus terminal at the city center for an overnight trip to Manila, Nokie was crying a river and wouldn't let go. Clad in her favorite red Japanese kimono, her arms are flailing in vigorous gesticulations, mostly pointing outside the house. She wants to go with me, but can only hand motion about it. At three, she has yet to find her full gift of speech.

That makes her our own special child, and the object of her father's deep affections. Which Nokie returns in full measure. Dropping my backpacks, I embraced her one more time and explained that Papa had to go away for a job -- but will soon be back in no time, with the promise to let her tag along once more as her older sisters take their dance lesson at the Ateneo.

The promise calmed her down, reduced the cries to sobs and she then eventually bade me goodbye. It eased a lot the difficulty of leaving. But I now have a promise to keep, and Nokie is not one who easily forgets.

Fulfilling promises will certainly not only bring a wide smile on her face; it will also have a soothing cathartic effect on a father who needs to go away from time to time. But nothing will replace the immense joy that would come when Nokie finally speaks, and tells her father how much she loves him.