Narrative Essay: Piecing Back Tai-Kong

Note: An investigation ala In The Grove

Piecing Back Tai-kong

Papa
I never really knew your Tai-kong. As I’ve told you, he died days after I was born. I never got the chance to have a grandfather who told me stories and bought me toys; he only smiled down at me from his portraits on the halls of the grand ancestral house. You’ve been there, haven’t you, four years ago? Yes. They’re the ones hanging on the hall before the staircase to the third floor. I’ve seen them too, yes. There’s a new one? Oh, your Granpa had that one commissioned a year before your trip there. It was nice, no?
Anyway, what your Granma told me when I was young was that your Tai-kong died of a broken heart. He had lived a full life with your Tai-ma when she was suddenly gone. I never knew the reasons; your Granma never told me. But what I know is, your Tai-kong followed her quickly a year or so after. It was tragic, which explains why the family always kept it secret.
Sa-koh (Papa’s third elder sister)
Your Tai-kong? I was about what, four, five? Yes, your Papa was just born that year. It was sad, yes, that we didn’t enjoy his coming much when only after a few days’ time your Tai-kong passed away. It was a bad time to be born, moreover, bad luck. It is good that your father was very understanding at a very young age.
From what I have heard, though promise me never to tell this even to your father, the family has kept your Tai-kong’s drinking problem. After your Tai-ma’s great decline in health, he started drinking for fear of losing her. It was true that he loved her so, so much that he chose not to uphold the honor of the family by remarrying in light of your Tai-ma’s gradual decline. Traditionally, one who is honorable had to remarry to have somebody to take care of the household, and living in that time, it was still widely-practiced. Yes, it was out of the norm for your Tai-kong to choose to stay loyal to Tai-ma. Sadly, he drowned himself in the drink that he himself concocted. Yes, it was he who brought the formula of his father from China to the Philippines, known in the provinces as Siok-Tong. It was at the height of its market when all these happened, that’s what stopped the family plan of bringing the Siok-Tong from the provinces to Manila. Your Tai-kong himself ordered the factory closed in Tacloban after he learned of Tai-ma’s illness. He stopped all other efforts from his two grown children, your Granpa and Di-Tsiak-kong, to continue the rise of the business. Honestly, I believe he was too sentimental to have chosen love over honor, which would’ve been both practical and helpful to the family.
Si-koh (Papa’s fourth elder sister)
It was tragic to say the least. You know, your Tai-kong really loved your Tai-ma. After hearing of her illness, he resigned to keep her company and stopped all factory operations and the shipping operations from China. He shut down the business that he single-handedly raised and fell to drinking to stand the grief as your Tai-ma slowly faded from him. The whole family supported his decision to decline his friend’s efforts to find him a new wife to take care of the home; they knew it would be to no avail whether a new wife would be present at home. We all knew Tai-kong would never have loved another; that was how great his love for Tai-ma was. Do I think it was impractical of him? No. I think the decision was his to make and his alone, our family was right to not have pushed him to do the honorable. Honor was one thing, but love supercedes any other thing other people might’ve pushed our family to choose.
Granma
You do not ask things like that. Your Tai-kong died of a broken heart and that’s that. No more questions. Young men should not ask about the past, take care of the present and the future.
Granpa
Oh, your Tai-kong was a sweet and honorable man. He loved Mama, no questions about that. I respected his decision to close all operations both in the importing/exporting business and the local brewery; it was just too much a blow to him to hear Mama was dying. It was bad because everybody thought Mama was going to outlive Papa, what with her spirit and her being there always; it was especially bad to Pa. Pa thought he was about to die when the doctor told him the news. It was a bad night, the doctor had to be driven from a nearby city hospital in the rain and I had to wait for the car as it came in the driveway. It was raining a great deal and the wind just blew so hard the tree by the pool almost broke in half. I had to assist the doctor into the house because all the maids were huddled outside the room, confused by their mistress’ sudden collapse. Pa was inside, holding on to Ma’s hand and comforting her. What happened after that night was the start of our family’s decline. The business eventually died and hard times came. It was after your Tai-kong died that my brother, your Di-Tsiak-kong, and I decided to revive the fallen businesses and managed to salvage the crippled Siok-Tong factories. I never regretted standing by Pa, honor can never compare to his love for Ma and that was that.

Narrative Essay: A Semester Filled with First's

‘A Semester Break filled with First’s’

This year’s semester break was definitely a big thing for me. It would be the first of the many famous semester breaks college students enjoy every year. These were usually the central points of envy high school students have on their seniorities. At first, I cannot quite imagine a month-long break, an actual one month long legal separation from school! Coming from a school that has a Saturday and a Sunday for its year’s semester break, this time was a joy indeed!
The first question that came into mind was this: What to do with a whole month of freedom? I was afraid that I won’t cope with the long break and might actually fall into boredom, but what I didn’t foresee was my family helping me stack on activities to do this semester break. With their firstborn experiencing his first month-long break, my parents decided to give me three things to accomplish with my spare time. Hearing their suggestions, I took the challenge.
First, I was to organize my sister’s 16th birthday party this year. It was to be en grande this time around, given that we celebrate birthdays every year simply by going out and eating at a fancy restaurant or something of the like. This year, my parents wanted something special for my sister, since she is about to graduate from high school. I joked about me not having an en grande party as she will have this year when I was about to graduate, but they said I should give special consideration to our unica hija. I was given the whole month to prepare, starting from the third week of October till the second week of November. I thought that was fair enough and took the responsibility gladly.
Both Ma and Pa picked the venue—The Old Spaghetti house, and I was left to do the invitations, the give-away’s, and my surprise birthday present for my baby sister (and, not to mention, cheap) which was a handmade scrap book with messages from us and her friends. The party was set and the preparations were ready an ample time before the day itself, and so needless to say it was a success. I, I mean, we actually pulled it off! I just had to sacrifice some time during dinner to video the whole thing and even did some fun filming of messages her friends had for her (we just asked her to go in the restroom for a significant amount of time). I guess everything paid off when, after I said my prayer in front of the whole party before the meal, I saw that my sister had tears in her eyes. I guess she was touched, not only by my words, but by the obvious affection we all had for her…
Second, I was to go to the Fitness First gym my mother and sister go to and be a guest for a day to try and get me started towards working out and losing some weight. At first I was excited, I saw the facilities once and they were amazing, but as the day came nearer and nearer, I actually dreaded it. I realized, I was going to go out of my comfort zone by entering that sweat-inducing, vanity-encouraging place. I planned to back out and tried to move the date, but my sister saw right through me and demanded that I go with her. If it wasn’t only her birthday a few days after it, I wouldn’t have agreed.
Quite unexpectedly, I warmed up to the place the moment I stepped in to change my clothes in the locker room. The people weren’t staring at me just because I was overweight as in my nightmares, but they seemed undisturbed by the sight of me and that seemed to put me at ease. The first session I had was taught by a kick-boxing trainer who neither talked nor announced the next step he was about to do, expecting the group already knew the routine, so I left with my sister and a friend of ours after the first half. I hated those kinds of trainers that neither tried to help the group in his class keep up nor act amiable to the group to try and get them encouraged. I did a set of cardio exercises with the exercise machines in front of the televisions after walking out, and after a while decided to try the next class. This class was different, with the trainer teaching dance and who acted warmly towards us. As he taught us the steps, he would ask us if we were getting it and would start again patiently if we didn’t. I am proud to say I finished his class and was soaked through my shirt and shorts with sweat. I decided to hit the sauna before showering to squeeze out as much sweat as I could possibly lose. Overall, the experience was quite nice and I would love to do it again.
Lastly, my third task for the break was to train my little brother with the Chinese Yoyo in preparation for our Manila Hotel performance. I trained him everyday, diligently teaching him the tricks over and over again, and patiently hearing his complains of sore hands and legs during every practice. Everyday with him coming from tutorial, I would help him do his homework, feed him dinner, and then practice the yoyo tricks with him. After which, I waited until he would be ready for bed and would put him to sleep. Every night, I prayed that our training would not be put in vain and that our performance would be great with the Lord’s guidance.
Our three weeks’ training paid off with the reaction of the crowd at the Manila Hotel. During the performance, we did have times when the yoyo fell of the string, but it was okay since the both of us were doing it for the fun of it. The experience was great since it was my brother’s first major performance in front of a large crowd. I had always wanted him to follow my footsteps with annual public performances, and this time around, at my last performance, he did it with me. I do hope that this would be the start of a whole legacy of him performing on stage and experiencing the thrill I got in the past.
This year’s semester break was definitely monumental, in a sense that I got to try my hand at different things I would never have thought I would. I was challenged to go out my comfort zone and experience some things new. Boredom was surprisingly kept out of bay with the tasks I had to do, thanks to my parents! I actually felt the break was not long enough… I am definitely looking forward to next year’s semester break!

Narrative Essay: Hypegiaphobia-Fear of Responsibility

Hypegiaphobia- Fear of responsibility

New Year’s resolutions make me feel so inadequate.
Every year, I join in the family tradition of listing a few things we’d want to achieve within the year and wait for a whole year to end to check the ones we’ve done and underline the ones we haven’t.
While my parents and siblings check out a lot of things from their lists during the end of the year ritual, always there will be a complete and clean list on my hands.

Year in, year out, I’ve gone into the habit of not replacing the list I’ve made the previous year.
Everything in the list is still there; not a word or a wish or a goal checked off.
A favorite of mine, also the most preposterous if you ask me (I think the reason why I wrote it was because I faced a mirror while changing clothes one night before a particular New Year) is the header of my list—LOSE WEIGHT.
Remembering back to grade school, that item had always been there—the big ten-letter bad word.
So much has happened in my life and yet those two large words still manage to haunt me.

Reading through my list of impossibilities, I see that the other items are quite easy as compared to the BIG one.
Easy in a sense that they’re doable, like cleaning out my room once a month, helping do the chores once in a while, getting a girlfriend, getting a life.
Sensible things that never got done, no wonder they never get checked off.
On the bottom of the list, another impossibility presents itself—CARE FOR SIBLINGS.
Living a day in my shoes, people would understand the dilemma of this last one wish, being that my siblings (as I realized one night for the nth night I had to suffer) are worse than the demons of hell personified, escaped, and running amok.
Under the right and immensely rare circumstances, with just the right offerings of cake, chocolate, and ice cream, these little beasts can be soothed into a deep and long spell of angelic cuteness and actual gentility.
Thinking of it now, I should’ve stocked up on the sweets when my mom and I went grocery shopping last week.
I have a research paper due Thursday (which translates to cramming Wednesday night), and Ma and Pa would be away so I’ll need all the sweets in the world to vanquish those monsters into an early sugar-induced sleep.
On their bedsides, I guess, I must sing them to sleep with their favorite lullaby—“Who lives in a pineapple under the sea? Spongebob Squarepants! Absorbent and yellow and porous is he…”
Nauseous with stupid kids’ show theme songs, I know I will barely make it to finish my paper (as in literally, right after printing the thing, I’ll be sprawled on the floor twitching in pain and seizing).
So long, stupid New Year’s resolutions; I still have real life waiting for me!

Narrative Essay: Journey Back Home

Journey Back Home

I was raised to see China and Taiwan as my mother countries, to accept my duty and pledge my loyalty to them, and to choose to be a Chinese-Filipino, not the other way around. I grew up with stories of how China once ruled almost the entire known world and how it once was, and still is, the proud empire I belong to. My grandmother told me tales of ancient heroes, how they fought and held on to the principles of tradition and age-old wisdom, and of numerous emperors, how they governed the Middle Kingdom to greatness. My father made me memorize three thousand year old Tang poems that can not be understood with mere basic knowledge of the language. I was taught to appreciate the wonders of our culture, how colorful our five thousand years worth of history was and how it was an honor to be part of it. I was born into a family that chose to be different, and though it stays in this foreign land, its heart is still in the land it left.
When I was fourteen, it was decided that I be sent to China that summer to visit my homeland and see the place my grandparents came from. My heart filled with joy as at last I would get to see the land where all my grandmother’s stories took place, to walk on the actual patch of dust where the wondrous heroes she told me about once marched on. Summer seemed too slow to come as my fourteen year old self boiled in anticipation.
When at last I arrived, I was greeted by teachers who would be accompanying me all throughout my stay in Xiamen, Fujian. They welcomed the group of Chinese-Filipino students I was in with warm hugs and smiles. As the teachers engaged me in conversation, they were surprised that I knew how to speak the language, and said they never expected a Huaqiao (a Chinese born abroad) to know how to converse in the mother tongue. They showered me with a lot more praises as is customary in meeting a new acquaintance. Anxious to help me settle in comfortably, they were very hospitable and obviously made efforts to check up on me every once in a while. They were truly gracious and most lovable people, thoughtful to say the least.
As soon as I arrived, I knew I would fall deep in love with China. From my airplane window and until I sat in the bus they drove to pick us up from the airport, my eyes were glued to the streets, the fields, the highway, the city that we passed. Everything seemed so wonderful that there was not enough time to take in everything in detail. We seemed to be driving along too fast as I tried very hard to take in a small sign, a field of grains, a lush patch of vegetable plantation, a city shop, neighborhoods that stretched miles and miles on end, one enormous department store after another; I was honestly tempted to ask the driver and the teachers around me to please slow the car to a crawl just so that I could digest everything. The teacher seated at the back of the bus smiled at me affectionately as I caught her eye, I guess she thought it was very cute that a fourteen year old boy had such curiosity to the simplest things she had been seeing all her life.
The university we stayed in was large; the campus was about half the area of the Ateneo. I was sent to a local university in Jimei, a small city by the outskirts of Xiamen. It had a nice little community surrounding it. The teachers led me and a few other students to our living quarters where we were separated into occupying two floors, one for the girls and the one a floor higher was ours. The rooms each had six-student capacities, but since the students who joined our group were only a handful, four people were assigned to a room. It had fair furnishings, simple and practical. There were three double-deckers and six cabinets on one side, six study tables on the other, and a separate room way across the room that housed three separate mini-rooms: the shower, the toilet, and three sinks. My room mates turned out to be quite cordial. They were well-mannered guys from different parts of the Philippines; I believe one was from Davao and the other two from Bacolod. I knew from the start we’d get on well.
The weeks that followed saw us eating together in the great hall (the sound of metal chopsticks clinking against each other still as sharp today as though I’d just heard it), sitting in classrooms filled with raised hands and voices struggling to put together a sentence in Chinese, and cramped along the corridors outside our sleeping quarters way past our lights-out time as we chatted up the girls staying on the floor directly below ours. Our tiny Chinese-Filipino group gradually bonded; soon, everybody knew everyone else’s names.
Looking back, what stood out shining from all the other memories we had from that trip was the places we went to and the people we met as time went by. They would be the ones none of us in the group would ever forget.
On weekday afternoons and the whole of weekends, we were free to go around the community surrounding the campus. We went down the cobbled streets to visit shops and shops lining the side walk. On the first day we were free to roam around, no one dared to venture out of the group as we were herded by the teachers who willingly gave us a tour. They told us which shops sold what and which had the best bargains on potentially nice souvenirs or gifts for Pa and Ma. Before they left us to the remainder of that first day out in the community, we were given the best lesson I guess I can never forget: ‘Laoban gei de jiaqian, dei haohao cong yiban kaishi jiang.’ (When a shop owner gives a price, start bargaining from a little below half the given amount.) That was to be our golden rule. We dispersed into twos and threes with that instruction in mind.
It took awhile, but after a week of perfecting my bargaining skills, I was crowned the head bargainer of the group. Every time a girl would see a pair of shoes she’d want to purchase, I was called in to help. Every time a gadget or a toy would catch some guy’s eye, I was hauled in to intervene. My skill was a blessing, which turned out to be a burden in disguise, though seeing smart purchases made and the satisfied smiles on my friends’ faces made the whole ordeal worth it.
Soon, the group would not go out shopping as a group anymore and my skill would then only be required in desperate situations. Groups of friends started popping out and not long after, everybody was not only shopping in the little community but even went as far as riding buses to Xiamen City to hit the great malls.
The riverstone streets smelled of freedom, the shops that lined the community and the others that lay beyond were screaming for us to explore, and we were all just ready to go out and pounce on our new found haven. Every time I would walk to the shops, I would stare down the path ahead of me and think just how different it was from the land I grew up in. Here, everyone was reminded by the past with the architecture and the prevailing wares the shops had, but also feel right in the present with the cars passing by and the high billboards standing high above the roaring crowds of the market. I feel and taste and smell and hear the China of the past, just like how my grandmother described it in her tales, but the sights that welcomed my modern eyes were familiar. A perfect harmony of the past and the present, even a sense of the future, was present in every shop, every restaurant, every alley, and every corner of my China. The feeling of getting all these things at once both overcame and awed me. I could not find a spot of the Philippines anywhere, but it was alright; I was in my homeland.
The people added magic to the splendor we saw around us. They seemed to be all smiles when they see us, and every time we passed by a humble home before reaching a shop we wanted to go to, we would see the little children, with flushed cheeks from the cold, waving at us from the inside. They were beautiful people. It would be common by the third week to hear the girls in our group chatting up about a cute guy they met inside the university campus or a ‘gorgeous hunk’ they saw in a shop somewhere in the community market, whom they would later visit as often as thrice in a week. The women were gorgeous to say the least, ivory-skinned with great expressive ‘chinky’ eyes, flushed cheeks, and sensuous red lips. It even became known that two female teachers who were fresh graduates from the university were our unanimous crushes. I now wonder who ever did let slip that little group secret.
Throughout the duration of our stay, we saw more of China and grew to love it more and more. We got to visit temples where some of my grandmother’s stories actually happened (or were at least mentioned), went to graves of ancient heroes, all of whom Gran has told me about, and had photo ops in the historical sites that led to the change in the China of today. I finished the trip, never realizing that the kid in me saw what he had only dared to dream of in the past, and had grown up into a young adolescent ready for more. What I knew though, and this was perfectly clear to me, was that I found home at last. I need not be someone who held on to what made me different from the people of that place; to the contrary, I brandished the things that I shared with them. I not only heard Gran’s stories anymore but lived them. I was in the land I was raised to love. I was home at last.

Narrative Essay: Haunted by Memories

Haunted by Memories

Most people turn to their memories to seek comfort or find solace from their nightmarish present. Fairy tale characters use to find refuge in their memories, like Snow White daydreaming about her times in the palace before she got stuck with the Seven Dwarfs in their humble home, or when Cinderella thinks back to when her father was still alive and her stepmother and stepsiblings weren’t in the picture yet. Many turn to reminisce to the good old days; most hold on to fond memories of their childhood. Unlike most, I turn back time to go back down memory lane only to find myself seeing the bad times so clearly and the good times usually blurred over by the former. I’ve always yearned to be like most other people, but I guess nightmares overweigh the dreams I might have had. Memories of regret, lost chances, and grave loss haunt me every time I try to probe back to my “remember when’s”; I am dogged by these nightmares I might just never shake off.

BACK IN FIRST YEAR, I was assigned to sit next to this girl. She had a simple heart-shaped face, with the usual ‘chinky’ eyes and unremarkable nose. She had freckles across her cheeks and was of a fairly typical cream-colored complexion. She was ordinary, possessed and had nothing to make you turn your head twice to take peeks at her, certainly nothing compared to my previous girl friends. She faired averagely in class, acted as someone who could have been drowned in a crowd of people without any reason to stand out; but what got me pretty much glued was her innocence. Her sense of the world was still hills of flowers and butterflies while the rest of us freshmen had ideas of how the world is a dangerous place. That there are, present in every dark corner and alleyway, people waiting to rob and assault. I guess her naivety attracted me, beckoned me to tease her, and to expose her to the real world where hurt and sorrow and actual pain exists. She was too much and too easy of a temptation to resist. This much I know was the sole reason for my courting her then, well, maybe with a little actual infatuation, but other than that, all I only wanted was to add another name to my ‘past girlfriends’ list.
The courtship led to days and days and weeks and weeks of selfish fun. I caught myself spending time passing notes to her across our foot and a half distance from each other, setting up late night instant messaging conversations that lasted three to four hours on end, or talking about the silliest of things and always ending with the sweetest lines (note to future players: e.g. Good night, I’ll be dreaming of you, that’s for sure!). I did everything out of the old guide book to ‘getting girls fast for dummies’, and by the end of exactly the third month (and the book’s last chapter), I had her.
It was three months in courtship, and exactly a day before Valentines’. I arrived in school feeling quite confident. The sky shone marble gray with streaks of sunlight shining through the cracks of dreary clouds. The cold breeze blew in and out of the campus; everything just so welcomed me! This was just my day. Carrying my bag carelessly over my left shoulder and a bouquet of faint-pink tulips nestled on my right arm, I made my way into the classroom. Nobody was inside, so far so good. I planted the bouquet right by her chair, which was first of her row beside the left wall. On her table I placed a pink-colored envelope with her name printed on it, and a single rose tied with a black ribbon over it. It was a little before the first bell when she finally arrived and discovered the surprise. I asked her for an answer to be given the next day. She said she would think about it, with an obvious pleased smile on her face. Done deal.
Valentines’ Day. The sky was clear that morning, sunny but not too hot. From the way she looked at me, I knew her answer there and then.
The day proceeded great. During one of the breaks, I placed another bouquet of tulips by the seat across the end of the room, the first seat by the right wall. This new bouquet was meant for someone else. I’d decided that since she was a done deal even before I started, I’d try a two-time trick this time.
While I was courting her, I was working two shifts as well. During breaks, I’d sneak out of the room and have a snack or two, even lunch, with this other girl across the room. This girl was cute; actually, she was my girlfriend back in third grade. Our relationship then was sweet but short-lived, I guess I never knew what led to our drifting apart. This time, I tried another shot at us.
Everything was working out well, until ‘naïve girl 1’ saw the bouquet by the right wall after dismissal. She saw the handwriting on the little envelope that was stuck to the base of the bouquet; she knew it was mine. Apparently, she knew my handwriting by heart. It was a stupid and insensitive move I did, I now realize, for after that, she refused to talk to me again. Only after a year did we talk and engage in friendly conversation. It was stupid of me, since the night after the discovery, I talked to our middleman, a mutual friend, who told me that her answer was supposed to be YES, and that I was mean and rude to have played her all along. My relationship with the girl suffered for a year or two. I knew the consequences, and I had to face them. I was a jerk for doing what I did.

If I could only turn back time, I would. Now, four years after, I realize just how painful love can leave us limping. I imagine she does not trust any guy with her heart anymore. I now only realize the gravity of my mistake, of how much I’ve hurt her, harmed her even. That point of having actually damaged someone’s life has haunted me in all my relationships that followed, leading me to end most of them to make sure I won’t hurt another one again.

IT WAS RAINING. The sky looked on as if to foretell my misfortune that day. I stood in line awaiting the free bus driving customers to Taiwan’s leading department stores/super market chain. The clothes I wore were a bit too thin for the cold weather, good thing I brought my umbrella with me. I intended it for the sun; I never saw that it was to rain hard that day. I would’ve cursed the rain if it only hadn’t brought about the incident I am now writing of next.
The ground felt rough even under my rubber shoes, rubble filling in gaps of my shoes’ rubber footing; the chill that surrounded everyone only suited my preference for the cold. My walkman phone kept playing in my ears against the howl of the great wind, and I was waiting. The next bus would not come for another six minutes. I stood there, enjoying the cold and the shelter I got from my umbrella keeping out the raindrops from ruining my shirt, pants and giving me a cold. Thirty seconds passed.
I saw a slight commotion up the front of the line. A girl about my age was asking those behind her if she could go under their umbrella; nobody minded her. She looked cute with her slightly damp hair running down the back of her jacket and some sticking to her cheeks. She was a good four or five steps away from me when I extended my arm with the umbrella, inviting her to go under it with me. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, a posy red peeping from the ivory white of her face. I could tell that she was quite well-off, wearing a cute outfit typical of the Tokyo-Taipei fusion of a leather jacket, a gray-green top and a decent enough checkered skirt. Her hair had strands of red highlights (or were they lowlights, I don’t know exactly what they are to be called) amidst her real black hair color and she had on long thin earrings that had those clear colored beads hanging from her ears. She thanked me in rushed Chinese and I answered a hurried ‘You’re welcome’, growing quite conscious of my own blushing cheeks. She went under my umbrella and started answering a text message she had just received. She pressed and thumbed her reply into the phone, and after a while, she looked at me, probably remembering that I was there, and gave me a shy smile. I smiled back.
As if by magic, I actually felt the minutes ticking by but during that time it was as if time was frozen altogether by the chill of the wind when, this I am certain of, our eyes met after those shy smiles. I will never know how long we stared or how brief we glanced at each other, I just felt it happening. I was about to ask her name when the bus, which I guess took its time then and just arrived to ruin the moment—my moment, our moment, came and we were lost in the muzzle of people getting in and out that followed. I never saw her in the bus. I was never sure if she took the same bus as I did for there was another one that came briefly after the first one did, but I never saw her again. I never got around to asking her name. Or her number.
I think it was a storm that hit us that day, but it was surely nothing compared to the storm in my heart as I rode silently to the store.

I could never believe I was that stupid to have let that chance slip under me. I now realize it was right there, ready for me to grab. Even if the crowd stirred because of the bus, I still should have exerted an effort to at least try and ask what I needed to know. Now, every time I see an opportunity I try to grab it right by the throat, as if trying in vain to grab the chance I once lost.

IT WAS NIGHT TIME and I remember having only finished half of what a math problem asked for when the call came.
My mother went to sit on the sofa chair by the phone, as she customarily does, and answered it. She was cheerful at first, as she usually is on telephone conversations with friends and relatives, but then grew quieter as the conversation took to its third or fourth minute. I sensed that it was unhappy news when my mother starting sobbing, silently at first until it grew fiercer as she rocked her body back and forth on the chair. I knew it was grave news. I knew too that it was news from family as she spoke in her childhood tongue—visayan—and started mentioning names I could vaguely remember to be that of her sister and some other simple words that I understand after years of having helpers from the south.
She spoke in hushed tones, as if under stress, to the whole of the family present in the living room, after her crying spell, long after she put down the receiver. “Ahia, Shoti, Shobe, Lolo is gone.” She called me Ahia. It is Chinese for Older brother, and so is Shoti for younger brother and Shobe for younger sister. She said these words so serene, so calm, as if her crying spell didn’t just happen seconds before she addressed us.
I felt tension in the air, as if something was about to break. My father sensed it too, for after hearing those words, he went over to the chair by the side of the phone, to where my mother sat, rigid and controlled, knelt down to her level, and hugged her tightly. My mother sobbed onto papa’s shoulder. After a moment’s silence, she once again composed herself and said matter-of-factly, “Ahia, papa and I are going to Cavite to see your Lolo. Make sure Shoti and Shobe are asleep within the hour. Remember to brush your teeth and go to the CR before going to bed. Bye.” She and pa went into the room to prepare mama’s purse and pick up papa’s wallet. They passed by and each placed kisses gently on all three of us. We packed our books back into our school bags, brushed our teeth, and went to bed. The night seemed darker that night.
I can never describe the way I went through my life after that. I lived through all of the routines without really living, eating the food set before me breakfast, lunch, and dinner without really tasting, and studying the lessons in class without really learning. Everything felt different. Now I realize I felt guilt. Guilty of never being there to visit Lolo. Guilty of never really loving Lolo. Guilty of never really knowing Lolo.
In his funeral, and even after his burial, I never cried. Never shed a tear for him. I never knew the reason why; I grieved, deep and honest down in my heart, but I never saw the need to cry, never felt the need to break down. I was the Ahia of my family, I must be strong, for I am strong…

The loss of Lolo always stuck to my mind, to the extent that every time I see my living grandparents in my father’s side, I try to channel the love and attention I should have given him to them. Always, I am hounded by thoughts of regret over the times I’ve wasted, feeling the cold breath of loss at the back of my neck, ready to pounce on me anytime. Never once do I stop and not think of the things I could’ve done for him, things we could’ve done together. I guess I thought he would be an ever-present entity in my life; that the thought of him dying was impossible and that I would always have time in the future to bond with him. I hope he could still see me from where he now is, looking on forgivingly at me, knowing that I’ve always loved him.

Memory can always be a book one can look over and read time and time again, after finding it worthwhile and quite remarkable. Sometimes though, memory can be a plague, a haunting, an unpleasant dream that haunts you, keeps you fighting, competing, and proving yourself to the world when everybody else tells you there is nothing to prove. It can also be a beast, prowling behind you, gnawing at your heart whenever you let your guard down and think back to your wrongs, to the things you could’ve done differently. It stalks, it waits, it haunts. Memory is a bittersweet thing; I guess it only depends on which things we look at that decides when it will start to hound us, and where we choose to look that matters.

Narrative Essay: A Little Boy Who Fell Down from Heaven

A Little Boy who fell down from Heaven


My angel.
My comfort and joy incarnate.
Oh, it was months—no, years—that I prayed for him. Prostrate by the bed, I asked the Lord for him. I pleaded with my young lips; with juvenile reasoning and youthful yearning, I presented the matter point-blank to the listening Almighty, necessity driving boldness driving desperation. I wanted a brother—no, I needed a brother, another boy to play with, share pranks with. I wanted to be needed, looked up to. I had all the toys a boy could ever want; sure, they filled my time shortly after purchase, but what of two weeks after? A new toy then? No. My robot couldn’t answer me back when I talked to it. My miniature kitchen set couldn’t even cook real food. (I tried it once after watching how Ma did it in the big kitchen. I poured a little oil over the plastic skillet as she did. I looked for the knob-thing that switched the flames on, and when I found mine, no matter how many times I turned it, it wouldn’t give. After a few more times, I gave up.) I needed a toy that was walking, talking, breathing, moving, jumping, crying, dancing, giggling. I needed a brother.
He arrived, huge, round, and covered in a woolen blanket, as pink, plump, and perfect as a baby could ever be. If the stork flew him inside the house, it would’ve had a tough time getting in with all the broken glass shards on the edge of the walls. Not to mention the baby’s weight when he came into this world. An enormous 9 pounds of skin, fat, and bones.
Back from our ancestral home in Malabon (we were sent to our grandparents to be cared for while Ma and Pa were in the hospital), I couldn’t have ran fast enough as my heart started to thump in vigorous drum beats knowing my much-awaited prayer was finally inside. I flew out the car, over the driveway, and into the house. The house helps tried to plead with me not to make so much noise as I entered the living room, but my mind was so filled with the desire to see my new present that it was just impossible to pay them any attention. I took my shoes off in a scurry, dropped them by the door and on the floor to abide to Ma’s rule, and ran for dear life towards the bedroom across the hall. I knew they were keeping him there because a maid just came out of the room carrying some blankets and an empty milk bottle.
With my socks still on, I drew a deep breath, closed my eyes and mouthed a quick prayer (well, just in case my baby brother didn’t turn out the way I dreamt he would, I still had to thank the Lord), noiselessly turning the door knob. I tiptoed into the room and tried to avoid looking at the bed and what lay on it just yet. Ma was already up, walking to me with misting eyes filled with joy and love. She whispered to my ear, with a soft voice (which was and still is not natural to her) just enough for me to hear, ‘Ahia, your prayer’s there, lying on the bed. He’s awake now, just woke up a few minutes before I heard you come in. I think he knew you were coming. Go ahead and take a look at your Shoti.’ My heart was beating so fast she must’ve heard it, for she gently rubbed my back as I approached the bed. I never knew that there existed such love as great as that inside my heart when I first laid my eyes on him. An eight-year old boy could never have understood.
Rosy red in the cheeks, snowy white in complexion, and a body with rolls and rolls of fat as that of the Michelin Tires icon, this Pilsbury gift caught my eye, heart, and soul. His giggles would never escape me, prodding me on to laugh with him for no other reason but the music of his cackle. His heavy, sac-like cheeks that seemed to be always filled with food (only that it was not food that filled it but sheer fat), tempted me to maddening fits of what we Filipinos call gigil. Those almond-shaped eyes peeked from beneath delicate eyelids, opening and closing with the fluttering of eyelashes like butterfly wings. In each rise and fall of this gentle infant’s laughter, I heard God’s word. In each periodic heave of his chest, I saw God’s love. In each shuffling this tot did as he lay there on the bed, I felt God’s touch. God was there, all the time, and I knew it. I sensed it from the moment little John Peter came into my life.
The days that came after that were just so filled with wonder; it would be inadequate for a novel of a thousand pages or even more to describe what joy each new day brought. I would snuggle up to him as he took his afternoon nap and just hold him by me, feeling the warmth of his body. I would never have dared to play with his limbs for fear of breaking them as I had done to my old action figures. (Many times I have cried over action figures that had lost their limbs when I spun them round and round just for the fun of it. One loss that haunts me till now is my Power Rangers First Edition Mega-Robot. It had those nice retractable arms and functional legs that made it so much fun to play with. It could be disassembled into the five animal robots that joint together to form it. It was the envy of my play group. In those years, when a kid had it, he was considered cool.) I only got around to holding him on my arms positioned as a cradle when Ma taught me how to do it the right way.
Soon enough, after that brief lesson in child-cradling, I held him for hours on end, touring him around the house. I brought him to the living room, dining room, kitchen, and the bedrooms, telling him which was which along the way. I would go on to give him these tours everyday, waiting for the day he learns how to walk and is old enough to run around and play with me. I was so ready to share my toys with him that, I believe, if my playmates found out they would think I was losing it.
Before I knew it, he was running around, chasing me with my water gun that was never loaded with water (for Ma would just have run amok if the floors were dirtied). He would shriek as he caught me in a corner and shot me with invisible water. I would feign death and drop to the floor, not moving a muscle until he reached for me and checked if I was okay. I would stay there like that for a couple of minutes to make him nervous then come back to life with a jump and startle him to shrieks of surprise. He would laugh all the way back to our room as I chased him with the water gun in my hand and made squirting sound with my mouth. We would play like this for the rest of the time after I got home from school everyday. These hours of running around with the water gun or sitting around, playing with my old toys were the times I would look forward to in a day.
There was just no dull moment or unmemorable day with my new baby brother. He soon went to school himself and spent less time at home, but as soon as I came home from school everyday, I knew he would be home waiting for me. There would be less and less time for playing but I still spent my whole afternoons with him, helping him with his homework or helping him review his new lesson. I would put him to sleep every night and lay beside him to gaze on his bulging cheeks and closed eyelids, sleeping hours after he’s dozed off, playing in dreamland. I would pray every night, thanking God for giving me such an adorable gift, and for giving me a wonderful reason to believe in Him for the rest of my life.
Now, nine years after that fateful span of bliss, pretty much nothing has changed. I still feel the same way every time he laughs, plays around, and snuggles against me every night. His giggles still resound in my heart long after its music fades, his kisses on my cheek still glow with warmth long after they’re wiped off with a towelette. His mischievous stares still amuse me till now.
His cheeks may not bulge as greatly as before. His form may not conform to the design of the Michelin tire icon. He may wear glasses over his almond-shaped eyes now. He may have lost a little of the weight that served as his buoys in infancy. His fingers may be longer now and a lot less sausage-like as when he was but a wee toddler. He may be flooding me with questions about Emilio Aguinaldo, Ninoy Aquino, Ramon Magsaysay, and the other lot of them for his Sibika assignment instead of just staring at me, bemused with my pick-a-boo trick, and cackling at the slightest tickle. His grip may be a lot stronger now than when I first slipped a finger on his palm. He may be trying to peek at what I am typing now, curious to read what I am doing a few minutes before bedtime, as opposed to just staring blankly at the flashing screen when he was still a baby. He may be a little disobedient now, especially in sending him to bed at nine, as compared to the automatic sleeping habit he had before. He may be all this and a less of that, but I love him just the same, if not, even greater.
“I’ll love you forever
I’ll like you for always
Whatever may happen
My baby you’ll be”
My comfort and joy incarnate.
My angel.