November 30, 1982. Bonifacio Day.
Having just started my schooling five months before, I woke up that day treating it like any other. Dressed in my maroon and white uniform, I settled down to breakfast, paying little attention to my parents’ conversation. ‘Are you sure there are classes today?’ I vaguely remember my mom asking Dad. ‘Malamang. I don’t remember them announcing otherwise.’ And with that we got in the family car, our white Holden, and bid Mai good bye.
It was strange to note the unusual absence of cars (and even of people for that matter) everywhere. But it did not seem to bother Dad, and I, at seven years of age, thought little of it. As was our ritual, we parked the car at the gate near the College of Home Economics building and, hand-in-hand, began our trek to my school along Katipunan Road. Dad seemed to be in a particularly happy mood, and he was telling me one of his stories when we met up with an elderly couple along the way. As was his habit, Dad paused a little and wished them a pleasant morning, and they reciprocated. They also, however, expressed a bit of surprise at seeing me in my little uniform, telling my father that there weren’t any classes that day. ‘Bonifacio Day,’ I remember her bemusedly saying.
On the way home Dad and I could only laugh. ‘Dapat kasi wala nang mga holiday na ganyan,’ he was kidding me. ‘Sayang ang time for study.’ Trust Dad to find the humor in the whole affair.
Looking back now I wonder why I actually felt a bit disappointed to not have to go to school that day. I wonder now why it seemed, even at that age, I somehow seemed to enjoy waking up to attend classes. While I would like to say that it was because of a ‘love for learning’ that prompted me to feel as I did, a part of me believes that it was those early morning treks with Dad, with his little stories as we walked, his jokes and his laughter that made it something to look forward to everyday.
Strange why this particular memory has stuck with me all these years; why, every year, when Bonifacio Day rolls around, I cannot avoid but remember it and smile. 
To be seven again and walking hand-in-hand with you Dad.