It's been two months of writer's slack since I last posted an article in this column. Post-election dyskinesia and then, a convergence of work from all sides kept me away from the computer keyboards - until now. The work still beckons, but my father's untimely passing has jolted me out of my cocoon to start writing again.

My father, Fredegusto G. David, left this physical world last July 13, 2007, after a stroke in the brain's critical area left him unconscious for 24 hours. It was the kind of quiet, dignified death that he would have planned for, leaving his family no uneasy questions, no difficult choices, but only reluctant acceptance of the inevitability of death. Yes, it seemed that he really planned to make it easy for us: from the start-up he gave us in life (all eight siblings, except one, who is already a medical intern, have already finished schooling: a computer science graduate, a Master's Degree in Math, a Ph. D. in Biomedical Engineering, and four M.D.s), to the memorial plan he bought 23 years ago.

But he also exited still at the height of his career, teaching psychology courses to both undergraduate students and masteral ones. At 69 years old, this year was to be his last extension at the University of the Philippines in Diliman, before he would finally put away his chalk box for good. He had served UP since 1959, starting off as Instructor and climbing all the way to Full Professor VIII (this was my last count), the last rung anyone could possibly attain. Along the way, he became Department of Psychology Chairman several times, refused other administrative positions, which to him, served only to distract him from what he really wanted, which was to teach.

And teach he did. From the many students, both present and past, many of those had gone off to graduate in medicine and related fields, who we siblings got to talk to during his wake, we discovered how they sought out his classes, enjoyed his lessons on life, wrote down his quotable quotes and passed it around, and even videoed one session (his last). They came in droves every night to view my Dad for one last time, before leaving to wonder who could ever replace him in the courses he taught. In the last night of the wake, upon their insistence, they prepared a tribute during which they unfurled a big tarpaulin with his picture and their favorite sayings from him; showed a video-documentation of the highlights of his career; and recited his famous quotations. Although the void that we feel from this loss could not be filled up by these outpourings of devotion, it has become a source of comfort for us that the 47 years he spent teaching in U.P. produced two generations of students who appreciated psychology and biostatistics, because of the way he taught it.

His colleagues speak of the very simple man who walked from his home to his office (he and my mother lived on campus for the past 45 years), wearing a cap (he acquired this habit in later years to give his balding pate some protection from the sun's rays) and carrying an umbrella/walking stick. He spoke gently, mildly, just enough to make a person stop and listen. And yet, people hung onto his every word during faculty meetings. They took note of his comments which came in measured words and weighted pitch. Yes, he had already become an institution within an institution of learning.

But for me, the measure of his humility was his kindness to people commonly perceived as the disadvantaged in society. One office technician told us how my father would wait for him until he had finished his chores, just to slip him a small amount of money for merienda. This may not seem big, but we children knew that he only kept a little money in his wallet, turning over his whole salary to my mother. The department security guard came during one night of the wake, in tears, to tell us of Dad's many kindnesses to him and how he would be sorely missed. Although not an outwardly religious man, my Dad took to heart the practice of Christian love.

I've not said goodbye to my father. I bid his physical body farewell when we buried him, but I know his spirit lives on, if only in the hearts and minds of the multitudes he touched, as a teacher, as a colleague, as a friend, as family. And now I am closer to him than ever.