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?

Bahaghari ng Alaala

Iba na naman ang kulay ng mga harang sa tulay. Bakit ba sa tuwing magpapalit nalang ng alkalde ay nag-iiba rin ang kulay ng mga ito? Hindi niya alam. Saglit siyang natigilan -- lumingon sa kanyang dinaanan.

"Bagong pintura na naman 'to," sabi niya sa kanyang iniibig, pinipilit niyang baguhin ang pinag-uusapan nila.

Hindi ito umimik.

"Ang ganda ng kulay, hindi ba? Sana palagi nalang itong ganito."

"Hindi maaari," sagot nito.

"Hindi mo ba gusto ang kulay?"

"Maluluma rin iyan."

Hindi siya nakasagot.

"Lilipas din 'yan," nagpatuloy ito. "Kukupas. Kapag kumupas na iyan, mawawala rin ang pagkagusto mo."

"Parang ako?" naglakas-loob na siya.

"Hindi ikaw ang kumupas."

"Pero bakit ayaw mo na?" tanong niya.

"Pag-ibig ang kumupas."

"Pag-ibig mo lang."

"Palayain mo na ako."

"Kapag nagbago ang isang bagay, hindi lahat ay gugustuhin pa rin ito pero hindi rin lahat ay aayawan na ito. Kahit nagbago ka na, hindi pa rin kita aayawan."

"Intindihin mo ang nangyayari." Tumalikod na ito sa kanya, alam nito na hindi rin siya makikinig.

Tumalikod na ito, alam nito na hindi rin siya makikinig. Hindi na siya umimik, napaluhod lamang siya. Ang buong paligid ay tila nagtatawa. Ang papalubog na araw naman ay waring walang pakialam -- unti-unting nawawala at inaagaw ang natitirang liwanag sa buhay niya.

Tinanaw niya ang kanyang iniibig, papawala na ito sa paningin niya. Pumatak, sa sandali rin na iyon ang pinakamapait na luha mula sa kanyang mga mata. Yumuko siya. Iba't-ibang itsura ng kasuotan sa paa ang nakita niya. Nagpatuloy sa paglalakbay ang mga tao. Hindi ba maaaring tumigil muna ang mundo? Hindi ba siya kayang damayan muna nito?

Lumipas ang panahon. Kumupas na ang pintura, gaya ng sabi nito, ngunit ang paghihintay niya ay hindi pa rin nagwawakas. Hanggang ngayon umaasa pa rin siya.

Sa tulay na iyon ay nakita niya muli ito. Sa kabilang bangketa, habang tinitingnan niya ang kumupas na pintura ng tulay, ay naroon ito kasama ang bago nitong iniibig. Ang parteng iyon pa lamang ang natapos pinturahan, ngunit bukas ay pipinturahan na rin ito kasabay ng pagkawala ng kupas na pinturang hindi niya kailanman hinangad na mapalitan.

Hindi huminto ang mga tao sa paglalakbay, hindi lamang ang mga may suot sa paa ngunit pati ang mga nakayapak. Hindi tumigil ang mundo kahit minsan para sa kanya o para sa kahit na sino. Kahit saglit ay hindi siya nito dinamayan at pagod na rin siyang damayan ang sarili.

Kailanman ay hindi niya hinangad na mapalitan ang pinturang iyong pero ngayon ay napilitan na siyang hangarin ito. Ang tanging hiling niya ngayon ay sumikat na ang araw upang mapinturahan na rin ito.

Iba na naman ang kulay ng harang sa tulay. Bakit ba sa tuwing magpapalit nalang ng alkalde ay nag-iiba rin ang kulay ng mga ito? Hindi niya pa rin alam. Binawi niya ang paningin sa kanyang dinaanan at tiningnan ang kanyang dinadaanan. Ilang ulit ng napalitan ang pintura. Natapos na rin ang paghihintay niya sa muling magtingkad ng kumupas na alaala. Naisip niya, kailangang hayaan nating pintahan tayo ng bagong simula sa tuwing pakukupasin tayo ng panahon at ng mga dumaraan sa buhay natin -- pintahan ng iba, hindi katulad ng dating kulay.

[March 2013]

Siya'y Nakihati

Habang nakatanaw sa labas ng bintana ay nakita ko na naman siya--mag-isa, malungkot at tila walang nais gawin sa buhay. Malalim na naman ang iniisip niya. Marahil, maging ang mga tala ay nais siyang tanungin kung ano ba talaga ang problema. Ano nga ba talaga?

Walang anu-ano ay biglang may lumapit sa kanya. Isang binata na tila kilalang-kilala siya. Sa kanyang mga mata ay pansin ko ang pagpapahalaga. Hindi man sabihin ay isinisigaw ng mga ito ang lahat ng damdaming ikinukubli niya.

"Gamitin mo ito," sabi niya habang iniaabot sa dalaga ang piraso ng puting papel na hindi pa nababahiran ng anumang uri ng tinta o mantsa. "Isulat mo rito ang lahat kapag hindi mo na kayang sarilihin pa."

Umalis ito. Tiningnan lamang niya ang papel -- isang sulyap na mabilis pa sa kisapmata. Itinupi niya ito at inilagay sa kanyang bulsa.

Sa kabilang bulsa ay kinuha niya ang pitaka. Sa pinakatagong sulok nito ay mayroong isang nakatuping papel. Tinitigan niya ito -- matagal, matagal na matagal.

Kinuha niya ang papel na kabibigay lang sa kanya, pinagtabi niya ang mga iyon na para bang pinagkukumpara. May lungkot pa rin sa kanyang mga mata.

Lumabas ako ng silid at iniwan ang bintanang naghihiwalay sa aming dalawa. Pinuntahan ko siya, kinausap.

Nalaman ko na ang papel na kinuha niya kanina sa kanyang pitaka ay mula sa lalaking dahilan ng kanyang kalungkutan. Tinanong ko siya kung bakit hindi niya sundin ang sabi sa kanya ng kausap kanina. Umiling lamang siya, hindi raw iyon ang papel na nais niya.

Inilapag niya ang malinis na papel sa bakanteng parte ng inuupuan niya. Nagpaalam na siya. Pumasok na rin ako.

Lumipas ang mga gabi. Dumating ang umaga. Nakita ko siyang palapit sa lugar kung saan siya madalas noon. Matagal din siyang hindi nagawi rito. Agad akong lumabas.

Paglapit ko sa kanya, nakita kong binubuklat niya ang papel na iniwan niya roon. Hindi na ito kulay puti, marumi na ito. Sira-sira na rin. Kung sa bagay, matagal itong napabayaan. Iiling-iling siya. Habang binubklat ay lalo lamang itong napupunit at nasisira. Huli na para gamitin niya, hindi na niya ito masusulatan pa.

Kinuha niya ang papel na matagal nanahan sa kanyang pitaka at iniabot sa akin. Ipinalit niya ang papel na minsan niyang pinabayaan sa dating kinalalagyan ng ibinigay niya sa akin. Batid kong hangad niyang itabi ang kahuli-hulihang piraso ng alaala sa kanya ng noon ay napakalinis na papel.

"Matagal ng may sulat iyan," ayon sa kanya. "Akala ko kasi mabubura ko. Pero, mabura ko man ay hindi rin iyan ang kailangan ko."

Umalis na siya. Binuklat ko ang papel. May nakasulat nga, isang pangalan ngunit hindi sa kanya. Ang papel na iyon ay matagal na palang nakapangalan sa iba -- nagbubulag-bulagan lamang siya.

Minsan, pinipilit natin itago ang bagay na gusto natin kahit na alam pa natin na hindi naman talaga ito sa atin. Hindi natin namamalayan na napapabayaan na pala natin ang mga bagay na ibinibigay sa atin at ang mga talagang pag-aari natin.

[March 2013]

You Filled the Paper

I wrote a poem last night,

Trying to put the tears in rhyme,

But it didn't sound right,

Realizing he's no longer mine.

Yesterday, he walked away,

I ran after but found no way,

So many words I want to say,

But night replaced the day.

I resented what I once loved,

I am nil without him around,

Writing when I'm far from his side,

Is a sad rollercoaster ride.

My dreams have gone so fleet,

A streak of lighting that went swift,

And my soul is sure of it,

For, I lost myself when he left.

Today, the night finally ceased,

Words are sated being unsaid,

Here's the way but I stayed,

Love has already perished.

I loved what I once resented,

The photograph's still faded,

The flowers remained withered,

But I'm writing without hatred.

My dreams found their way back,

It's time now, said the clock,

And my soul is sure of it,

Myself's here -- the one he took when he left.

I wrote a poem afresh,

And saw the rhyme in your face,

Now, I fathom as I gaze,

My pen lived again 'cause of your rays.

[March 2013]

LRT

Sumakay ako sa tren,

Sumakay ka rin,

Tila magtatagal ang lakbayin,

Salamat at ika'y kapiling.

Tayo'y sakay ng tren na 'di mahulaan,

May mga istasyon na tinitigilan,

Na dapat palampasin at lagpasan,

Kung hangad marating ang paroroonan.

Mabagal man yaring pag-usad,

Tayong dalawa pa ri'y mapalad,

Dahan-dahan ma't 'di kaagad,

Alam natin kung sa'n mapapadpad.

Atin munang tanawin ang mga ulap,

Ngayong mas malapit tayo sa alapaap,

Sa dinaraana'y magpakasayang ganap,

Sa mga biyayang noo'y isang pangarap.

Malayo pa ba? Ilang istasyon pa?

Hindi ko alam, wala akong ideya,

'Di ko na rin bibilangin pa,

Sa 'yong tabi'y 'di dama ang distansya.

Nang walang anu-ano'y huminto sa alanganin,

Sa kisapmata'y tila pinigil ng hangin,

Sa ingay ng pasahero'y sumabay ka na rin,

Para bang hangad mo na itong lisanin.

Nakakatakot -- ako'y nangangamba,

Ngunit 'di sa paghinto tinamaan ng kaba,

Sa susunod na istasyo'y waring bababa ka na,

Lilimutin na ba ang bawat salita?

Sa dami ng nagsiksika't nag-unahan,

Mapalad lahat ng narito't lulan,

Ngunit hawak mo ang iyong isipan,

At pusong mag-uutos na ako'y iwanan.

Katulad ng iba, ika'y may karapatan,

Kung aalis ka na'y mauunawaan,

Maiwan man akong mag-isa't luhaan,

Pagka't 'di ka sumama sa dulo ng daan.

Tren ng pag-ibig ay humihinto pala,

'Di dahil may sasakay o may bababa,

'Di dahil may estasyon o wala,

At kadalasan, ika'y mabibigla.

Hindi man handa'y susubukang gumawa,

Ng paraan para tuluyan kang mapalaya,

Kung aalis ka'y hindi na aalma,

Paalam mahal ko, paalam na.

Limutin mo ma'y hindi tatalikdan,

Itong tren na minsan tayong nilulan,

Ang pighati't kabiguang ito'y lilipas sa kalaunan,

Ngunit 'di ang 'yong bakas sa riles ng aking kasaysayan.

[March 2013]

Dear September

"I've been spending the last eight months thinking all love ever does is break and burn and end. But, on a Wednesday, in a cafe, I watched it begin again." -Taylor Swift, Begin Again

Love is the nearest thing to heaven but loving someone who does not know how to love can pull you down to the lowest place in hell even if you do not deserve to be there.

She, who was once imprisoned by the evils, can still feel the heat that burned her illusions of having a fairytale-like life. The demons were roaring and laughing at her hopelessness. Her sweat was falling, from time to time, with her tears.

It was hot in hell, yes.

Good thing, that was a long time ago. The angels went down and took her to a paradise without a lover but with the presence of love. The sun brightened up; letting her discern the truth that his erstwhile partner is not the world but only a portion. The rainbow showed up and colored the black and white town of her dreams. God, most of all, pulled the tattered edges of her soul together again.

However, though the parcels of chagrin, rues and loneliness are only in her mind right now, far away from any corner of her heart, she believes that she must not give her trust to a man afresh. It should lie peacefully in her locked drawer -- be sheltered from all those blokes who have no other intention but to receive love without knowing how to appreciate the sender, be kept away from the lads who do not deserve the loving touch of a lass.

But, he is different.

He was, he is, and will always be different, she believes.

He is better than all the other men that she has met. He knows how to love without being aware of such capability. He has a heart of gold even if he perceives it as something which is made of the hardest type of stone. It is amazing how he manage to show the people around him his care while believing that he cannot do anything good.

Days passes, she continues to heed to his tales of long ago. It did not take her long to fathom that not all blokes are alike for the man beside her is utterly different.

He was, he is, and will always be different, she believes.

He is someone who does not deserve poison from the pangs of pain. He is not the one who should be embraced by the cruelty of selfish love -- as he deserves the altruistic kind. He is a true person and ropes of sand are not for him to keep.

Yes, she believes, he was, he is, and will always be different.

Now, she understands that not all the glitters coming from the stars are false scintillas. He is not one of those dead stars; the ones that are glittering in front of us when it does not even exist by the time when its light reaches our eyes.

He is a true, wonderful creature. He is more than ordinary -- even more than special. Perhaps, there are lads around her that are too innocent to be perceived as miscreants in the kingdom of affection.

Love is the nearest thing from heaven, she realized, but it will never pull you down to the lowest place in hell. Love is never cruel, some people are. Those folks who do not understand the meaning of love are.

He was, he is, and will always be different, she believes.

She looks at him. She is in love once more.

She is in love with him.

From a distant place, somehow, the angels sing.

"For the first time, what's past is past."

***

2013

Inspired by Taylor Swift's Begin Again

Photo credit: rebloggy.com and keki-chan702.deviantart.com