Nagbalik na Ako

Tama ba ang tamang panahong nasa isip mo?

Kay tagal kong itinago ng mga salitang ito ngunit ngayon ay sasabihin ko na ito. Kay tagal kong hinintay ang tamang pagkakataon para ipagtapat ang lahat ng mga lihim na ilang taon kong ikinubli. Wala ng ibang panahon para magpaliwanag kung hindi ngayon kaya kahit hindi ko alam kung makikinig siya ay susubukan ko. Hindi pa huli ang lahat para makita siya at subukan siyang kausapin ngunit pagkatapos nito, kung palalagpasin kong muli ang sandali, ay wala ng kasunod na panahon para sa mga katagang ilang taon kong sinarili.

Pero, bakit ganoon? Parang may hindi tama. Iba ito sa inaasahan kong tagpo. Alam ko pa ba ang ginagawa ko?

Bitbit ang nobelang isang dekada mahigit kong iningatan para sa muli naming pagkikita ay dahan-dahan akong humakbang papasok ng simbahan.

Binigkas ko ang pangalan niya. Sa tingin ko, masyadong malakas iyon -- sapat para makuha ko ang pansin ng lahat.

"Ikaw?" gulat na sabi ng isang lumang tao mula sa dati kong mundo. "Hindi ka na dapat bumalik! Umalis ka na!"

Narinig ko ang sinabi ng babaeng iyon, na nasa harap ng altar, ngunit hindi ko pinakinggan. Hindi ito ang tamang panahon para magpaapekto dahil ito na ang huli. Nagpatuloy ako sa paglalakad palapit sa tunay kong iniibig, wala na akong pakialam sa sasabihin ng mga taong nakapaligid.

Nakita ko ang reaksyon ng bawat isa, hindi maitatangging tunay silang nabigla. Sa kabila nito, wala ng iba pang umusal ng kahit anong kataga. Lahat ng naroon ay nakatingin lamang sa akin, walang nagsasalita. Walang ibang maririnig kung hindi ang isang pamilyar na awit na hindi ko mawari kung bakit tinutugtog ngayon.

Though I know I'll never lose affection...

Hindi ako maaaring magkamali. Pero, bakit?

For people and things that went before...

Sa dinami-rami ng kanta, bakit ito pa?

I know I'll often stop and think about them...

Dapat ba akong matuwa na ito ang pinili nilang awit?

In my life...

May dapat pa ba akong ikatuwa ngayon?

I love you more...

Mababago ba ng awit na ito, na noon ay alay ko sa kanya, ang mga napabayaang saglit sa loob ng labing-isang taon? Ngayong tinutugtog ito ay mababawi ko na ba ang panahon?

Nakatingin pa rin ang lahat sa akin. Ganito pala ang pakiramdam kapag hindi ka inaasahan sa isang kaganapan.

Sa kanilang mga mata ay iisa lamang ang nababasa ko: "Bakit ngayon ka lang, Almira?"

Ang tanong na iyon ay hindi ko muna sasagutin. Nagpatuloy ang aking mga paa na kahit nanginginig ay alam kong hindi hihinto. Bumilis ang tibok ng puso ko. Ngayon ay nasa gitna na ako ng simbahan. Handa ba talaga ako?

O, ang ilang taong paghahanda ko ay kulang pa rin sapagkat hindi bahagi ng plano ko na sa ganitong tagpo ko siya haharaping muli?

Nagpatuloy ang mabilis na pagpintig, pabilis pa ng pabilis. Sana, sana pala, ay hindi na lamang ako umalis.

(Nakakailang chapter na ako rito. Sana matapos ko ulit. Hahaha. Oo 'yan. Inspired e. HAHAHA.)


[April 2013]

I Discern Heaven Everytime I Think of Him

Looking at this tiny shred of faith, I realized how frail I am.

        

Under the cerulean heaven of a peaceful afternoon, I found myself wandering along the streets of Intramuros, seeking for someone or something that can give me enough inspiration to grow and burgeon anon. I was not alone that day – I was surrounded by a lot of people with different stories say. Some of them bear enthralling tales of raptures with them while relishing that peaceful afternoon. Some of them want to rupture in tears as they recall the drastic events that they were forced to embrace in order to live. All of them are interesting people but, somehow, the soul that I have searching for was not around because that person who has the heart that can make me vide the beauty of living in this temporary paradise was really hard to find.

               

I was losing hope when I sat down at the rough stairs in front of the Manila Cathedral. The rain was beginning to fall. I asked the cotton-like clouds above: “Is it a blessing or a curse?” And I got the heaven’s reply when I saw a thin, old man selling colorful rosaries with his underarm crutches in use.

                Opportunities are like shooting stars. It may disappear in just a blink of an eye without even waving goodbye. I hurriedly crossed the street and rushed to the place where he is. From a distance, I discerned him gazing at me with his eyes scintillating like evening stars and with his broad smile as wide as the endless sky. I opened up the conversation and watched the story of his life as it unfurls before the two wide open eyes of my soul.

               

Mang Nonoy is the face of millions of people who disregard their illnesses only to provide food for their families. He is a rosary vendor near the Manila Cathedral and has been doing such job there since 1979. He travels everyday from Montalban, Rizal to Intramuros, Manila. According to him, a lot of tourists are going in and out of the walled city that is why a lot of buyers are also there. Most of his buyers are foreigners and balikbayans. Some students and Filipinos who are having tours there also purchase rosaries from him. At first, he sells different kinds of products depending on what is “in”, and then he finally made up his mind to focus only in selling rosaries with different colors and styles. He made most of those rosaries by buying beads from Cebu, Manila and other places where it was cheap while some of them were made by those prisoners who are starting to face another sunrise in their lives after those long windswept nights.

               

He is a kind and loving father, a hard-working and passionate husband of his spouse who is a factory worker. He does not care about his being lame and all he aims to do is to help his wife in raising their four children. Three of his those children are studying that is why he really needs to earn money because he knows that education is the only treasure he can give them because he, himself, came from a very poor family and he has no properties that he can leave them when he dies. All of his wishes, reveries, hopes and even pipedreams revolve around his deepest dream and that is to see them successful in their lives. Sickness will never be a hindrance for him to fight valiantly against windswept moments and virulent things. If it was for his children, he knows no pain, no hunger and no disability. His love for his family supersedes the brightness of the eye in the sky amid the summer days. The heat of the sun can only burn his skin but it can never turn his altruistic emotion for them into ashes.

               

For more than three decades of selling, he has witnessed the special events as well as the changes that occurred within the said city. He cheerfully told me his thoughts and feelings when he saw Sharon Cuneta and Gabby Concepcion’s wedding. He also expressed his delight everytime he sees famous personalities in the Manila Cathedral. The way I see it, he perceive these things as boons from the angels above – things that entertains him when he is working.

               

We continued our conversation. I learned a lot of things from him such as the beauty of acceptance, love, bravery, perseverance, determination and selflessness. But of all his advices about life, what I like the most was the perception that he shared to me.

               

“Lahat ng bagay ay mahirap, kailangan lang ng tiyaga,” he stated.

               

With what he said, I recalled all the moments in my life when I succumbed without having fighting as one of my choices. I realized how numbskull I am to make giving up, for so many times, as my only option. He, a man who was enfeeble by a disability, knows how to run and race with those passing cars and walking people for the sake of his family while those without illnesses loves complaining to God and shunning their tests from the angels above. Somehow, it was a sad reality that those who are healthy, has more than enough and owns an almost perfect life are the ones who are flimsy, longing for a lot of things and seeing the Earth as a forest of swizz.

               

The world is replete with incessant happiness and conspicuous mirth but a lot of us can never be sated because of fear and pessimism.

               

Everytime I see this little piece of faith, I fathom how weak I am for shedding tears for petty things and accusing life as unfair because of inane reasons. And I remember him, Mang Nonoy, who taught me how to open my eyes to the fact that I got a lot of blessings to embrace and so many things to learn. Yes, he is the soul that I want. Anyone can be an inspiration – both rich and poor. It is not the status that determines the person who can bring sunshine into your life but the heart he owns inside of him.

                 

Each time I vide the rosary I bought from him, I perceive the sun rising from the East and the rainbow that comes after the rain — I discern the reality that I can always be a fighter, I can always squelch every obstacle in this race called life. Yes, I see heaven everytime he enters my mind – I find the kingdom of God that promises a life of glowing bliss.

[2012]

The Last Morning

 I never knew what loneliness means, I never fathomed what pain really is, until he went away and crumbled my heart into a million shreds. Your first heartbreak, as they say, is the deepest of all pain — the longest gash, a proof that things are no longer the same. Until now, I cry for him. Until now, I long for his arms.

Albay is the most wonderful place for me. It fits the description of paradise. This is where the fireflies scintillate at night. This is where the rivers flow without bearing pieces of trash. This is where the rocks are bigger than the people. This is where you can place with chickens, ducks, carabaos and cows. This is where the trees and the breeze dances in the night like Cinderella and her prince. This is where the sun rays glitter in every place during the month of April — the place where the rain falls gently in the month of May.

My family always spends Christmas in this province, where my father was raised. But, we do not go there for a summer vacation — and I do not know the reason why.

But, this summer is different. My parents took us here while believing that, at the age of thirteen, I can manage to take care of myself and my younger brother.

Perhaps, this summer was perfect. I made new friends and learned a lot of things about the people living there. I also meet someone who became very special to me — someone who made me realize that the city is too far from heavenly life. I know, when I travel back to Marikina, I will really shed more than a tear.

My brother, who is too shy to socialize with others, is often left at my grandparents’ house. Most of the times, my grandfather does not allow me to go to far places but I do not obey him. I believe that I already know what I am doing for I am no longer a child and that the main purpose of my vacation is to relish my father’s hometown.

Days passes, my parents come here for fiesta and tells us that we shall go with them. On bended knees, I beg for another week to stay there. Luckily, they agree.

Life is too serene in this place. I cherish every bit of it, including the ones I met. Somehow, I keep thinking how to say to my parents that I think it is better in we move here.

Time flies. Today is my last day here. I am a little bit lonely and bothered. I really do not want to go.

Looking at my grandfather as he lays sleeping under the shades of several trees, I realize how old he is and so as my grandmother who has been sick for days. Perhaps, he needs a rest for he is too caring to sleep while his beloved spouse is in a terrible condition.

The rain pours, disregarding the burning sun. He wakes up and goes home.

“Your father is coming today,” he says with his eyes glittering in bliss. I always know that my father is the closest to his heart among his four children. He always welcome us with a loving embrace and, each time we are about to go home, people see him inside his room with his eyes imbued with tears.

I suddenly feel a bit of weirdness. Why is he in mirth? I am going back to Marikina tomorrow with father. Maybe, he truly misses his son.

Focusing my sight at my grandfather’s face, aflame with profound excitement of seeing his child again, I realize the reason why he always want me to stay at home — he perceives the image of my father with us. I become guilty of thinking that he does not want me to enjoy my vacation.

I make a promise to myself that, when I return to this province, I will do everything I can to let them feel my love. I vow that, one day, I will be mature enough to take care of them.

The morning greets me while I am sleeping in bed. I hurriedly go out of the room to eat breakfast so that I can say goodbye to all the ones who made my vacation a worth-enshrining sojourn.

My grandfather, filled with zeal, prepares a breakfast for me. It is my favorite rice cake, though I do not know its name. We chat about so many things before I finish my breakfast and go out of the house.

Few hours later, I return to my grandparents’ house. My grandmother embraces me so tight that I can not breathe. She is crying. I cry too.

Albay is the most wonderful place for me. It fits the description of paradise. This is where the fireflies scintillate at night. This is where the rivers flow without bearing pieces of trash. This is where the rocks are bigger than the people. This is where you can place with chickens, ducks, carabaos and cows. This is where the trees and the breeze dances in the night like Cinderella and her prince. This is where the sun rays glitter in every place during the month of April — the place where the rain falls gently in the month of May. And, most of all, this is where I first saw him — this is where we built hundreds of memories, me and my grandfather — this is where I first saw him, when I was a young girl.

I rupture in tears. The Mayon Volcano seems so quiet today but another volcano is erupting inside of me. My soul wants to fly back in time when I vide my grandfather inside the coffin. Heart attack is so drastic to be able to kill him.

I recall the moments when I am still a child, the times when I relish my vacation with no one but him. I envy my brother who had a lot of time with him this summer. I envy my father who carries him in his arms and had the chance to tell him how important he is for him. I resent myself for being a fool — for failing to understand that we came here to be with my grandparents who truly miss us.

“No!” I scream. “He is not my grandpa! He is not dead! I am going home to Marikina and return here m when I already know how to take care of them. I still have a lot of recipes to learn. I still have to know how to cook rice. I want to go home now.” I keep talking to myself as I run away.

What about our dreams when I am still a child? How will he read the things that I will write in the future?

“Grandpa! Please prepare my breakfast again!”

The day of his funeral is a tragedy to me. Everyone cries. My grandmother whines while believing that she is the one who must be inside the box that carries my grandfather because she is the one who is sick. My cousins do not want to talk, even my brother. And, for the first time, I saw my father cry while screaming that he loves him so much. I am also drowning in tears.

“Grandpa,” I tell him before they close his coffin, “someday, I’ll write about you.”

Until now, I cry for him. Until now, I long for him. The pain was so long ago but it lives in me as if it belongs in the present. I have written several stories about my grandfather but it do not change the fact that I failed to say I love him for the last time. Yes, I can move from anything, from anyone, but I could never let go of this sadness. My first heartbreak has a way of finding me through those sweet memories of yesterday.

[2013]

The ‘Young Once’ and their Once-Upon-a-Time

“Objects remind one of the past and in this they are beneficial for one can give them away and it is like shedding history. Memories are more cruel: they cannot be given away, only shared.”- Stephen, The Iron Tree

It is almost 9 o’clock in the morning. No other light is present outside of their new home. There is nil except for the first set of glittering, orange, sun rays — the one that is being considered by many as the light of hope.

However, the heat of such do not give warmth but rather exacerbates the condition of the whole place — irritates the old people inside the Luwalhati ng Maynila Home for the Aged. I, a piece that reflects their strength and freedom in days of yore, start to experience their lives. Though nobody knows what the future holds, I believe that this is more like a glimpse of tomorrow. Growing old happens naturally despite the fact that, if we are going to examine the reality, it do befall in different manners.

I am always interested with people and the stories they bear inside their hearts — especially with the old ones, knowing that they have lots of experiences and lessons to share. This is the reason why I did not find it hard to approach them, because I have the passion. However, away from others’ excitement of seeing a new face inside their shelter, an old woman tells me to go and leave them away for she thinks that I do not belong there because we are not of the same age. She resent visitors. All that I see in her eyes is a profound kind of bitterness that no one else but she could define.

The other old fellows go near me and advise me to shun her. She does not want anybody else but her self, they say. I nod at them. Though I find her interesting, I know that I must respect her. Probably, she has a deep reason for isolating herself.

I roam around the place. If chance would allow me, then I would talk to all of them.

Abruptly, an old woman runs towards me. She expresses how she likes me, even if this is our first meeting. According to her, when I smiled at her from a distance, she felt a streak of special emotion running through her veins — as if we were relatives who met after many years of separation. She did not say her name when I asked her, she just continue her pouring her heart on me. She feels like I am her grandchild, though she never had one because she is an old maid. I suddenly remember my grandmother’s embrace when she hugs me.

Ma’am Emilia, a nursing aid, calls her to give her snacks. Meanwhile, a house parent, Ma’am Nelia, approaches me and asks me to follow her. She takes me to the place where the bedriddens lay in the coldness of longing. She explains that they, the staffs, are not enough to give them adequate care. This place, perhaps, is really far from a heaven-like life — away from the cradle of a love coming from a real home. It is heart-breaking to vide these old people, who are almost dying due to their age and sickness, feeling the pain without a relative beside them. Some of them are not that old, still sensitive to emotion.

We leave the building and Ma’am Nelia goes back to her work.

I start to observe them again. I begin meeting different kinds of people whose past are not the same but the present lives are alike — lonely.

“How can I be happy?” Lolo Augusto raises his voice. “I miss my family. I never like this place.”

He, most of the time, answers in English. He is a former professor in English and History. He was brought here by his cousin who is a policeman. He really does not want to stay in this institution but he has to. He do not want anyone to be burdened because of him so even his child and his ex-wife do not know that he is here.

Similar to his sentiments are that of Lolo Pablo, Lolo Ernesto, Lola Catalina, Lola Bising and Lola Anita. They are all experiencing the pain of unwanted solitude. Lolo Pablo was already separated with his wife who never gave him a child and is being resented by his son to a woman he met when he is still too young for responsibilities;  Lolo Ernesto whose children do not treat him as their father for being absent in their lives for years without knowing the his in-laws are the reason why they are living a separate life; Lola Catalina who do not like her grandchildren’s spouses; Lola Bising whose three children love their jobs more than their mother; and Lola Anita whose children are always fighting because of her property.

Some stories are even worse. Lola Trinidad expresses a deep feeling of sadness while telling me how she loves her daughter that in spite of their simple life is always getting what she wants. Haplessly, she never appreciates her mother and disrespects her. As a result, even her husband treat her with disgrace and the reason why she got here is because he hit her head with a stone. Some concern citizen took her here. Another is that of Lolo Delfin who studied Preparatory in Law at the University of the East but feels so helpless and worthless because of his nephews, nieces and their spouses. And, Lola Teresita who had been left by her sister who asked her to accompany her to the bank but just took her elsewhere and hurriedly rode a jeepney.

“Ma’am, isama mo nalang ako.” Lola Joselyn begs, telling me that she can be a maid and she will not ask for money as payment for her service.  She only wants to get out of this place.

Somehow, this place is an institution for the unfortunate people. The sun’s heat suddenly becomes cold as ice to me. This is truly a windswept area — imbued with people whose eyes have dying lights, and some have no light at all.

“Hello!” a cheerful and beautiful woman, who does not look so old, approaches me. Her name is Lourdes but the people inside keep on calling her ‘Donya’ because she never ran out of stories about her family’s property and riches. As we chat, I fathom that even a weakening ambiance cannot enfeeble a person who has optimism in her. She explains that she is happy in this place, though her children are far from her, because she enjoys planting here — no one does it here but she. She also tells me that, when her two daughters come here from the United States, she will share some of her wealth to me. That sounds funny to me but I feel a bit sorry for her because according to Rhivan, Ma’am Nelia’s son, when we talk to each other a while ago, her daughters have already derelict her.

As I continue spending time here, I meet folks who are thankful to have a place to shelter them from the relentless people outside. We should really open our eyes to the beauty of this world, I thought. The earth maybe drastic at some point but terrible things are also signs that we are living. We only have one life and it is up to us whether we are going to live or die in every moment we breathe.

It is getting late in the afternoon now. I go to the staffs of this institution and thank them for being generous to me. I also thank the old people who made me feel so welcome.

Before I go out of the gate, two old women stop me. One of them is the one who reminded me of my grandmother’s embrace. She keeps telling me to go back here some other time. And, the other gave me a bracelet made of wooden beads which she made for me. I am really surprise with her because we never had a chance to talk while I am currently relishing this place.

I wave goodbye to them. I shall go home now.

Memories are more cruel, as what I have read in Martin Booth’s novel, for they cannot be given away — only shared. Old people have a lot of memories to share and they badly needed someone to sit beside them and hear their tales of long ago. If you are planning to leave an old person inside a home for the aged, then you are also planning to make their journey towards their last mile harder than what it supposed to be. Happiness is a choice but only a few can choose to be happy knowing that they are already abandoned. These people are frail. Are you that heartless to make them even weaker?