Cold-hearted Thoughts

I am scared of myself at times. Repeatedly piqued, I would wish that I could make a person vanish just how vain magicians do in the movies. I would justify this thought with another thought that it may be better that way – that they do not exist because they cause malady.

When a person’s ill deeds really get into my nerves, I could almost utter “I wish you’re dead!” or “I wish you go to hell!” I know it is bad but that is how I go cold-hearted when people infuriate me.

When it is not possible to get rid at once of disgusting people, it is so easy to be led astray with these thoughts. Then I would be guilty if I was transformed into something like them – monsters that sap our wits.

You may want to check the cause of my rage here.

CrAzY BoNe

Because the holiday was moved to November 28 which is equivalent to a no-work day, Papsie and I went to Lipa, Batangas early Sunday morning. We were invited by E, a classmate who missed the Philippines so much and decided to stay in the country with wife T and two handsome kids after living and working in New York City. They have a nice place in Barangay Rizal and he is into the hog raising business.

We had with us my brother-in-law and thanks to his excellent skill in tracing places, we were there not so late but only 30 minutes delayed. Another classmate was there, too, with his wife and a daughter. Kuya C, our classmate’s older brother, and his helpers, were there and took time broiling the big chunks of liempo, the tilapia and the stuffed bangus, the mussels and the super délicieux tuna belly. Papsie and I brought a 3.75 L and 1.5 L Tres Cepas.

The simple revel started at about 9am with breaks in between because we have to go to the other houses to eat – typical rural celebration of fiestas. Then the drinking session continued after eating then interrupted again to eat again!

Anyway, aside from the mouthwatering food that I would treasure, the wacky exchange of stories and opinions really drove everyone into fits of laughter. They vary from nonsensical to sensible topics. I don’t know if it’s the liquor but I was laughing the whole time and really enjoying.

• Would you prefer convenience over quality for sex? If you were to choose where to put your sex organ, where would you like it placed? Then E replied that if it is on one of everybody’s fingers, he would shake hands with all the lovely and sexy girls. I thought - where is the challenge in that?
• Kuya C hates their mother every time she tells the neighborhood the story that when they get drunk, she would take off her panty and wipe it on the drunken son’s face. Where did that wacko who advised Inang get the idea that a used panty could reduce booze effect? “Don’t give me that bull, Inang! Who would want a panty? Give a drunk some respect, too!” went his tirade.
• A female organ as agreed by all the men in the group gets slack after its repeated use. I begged to disagree and stuck with my point of view that it gets loose only after birth because it is elastic. The discussion about this was lengthy and I could not persuade them that the size and the number of penis that invaded the organ do not make it loose fitting.
• In a labor related case that will be brought to NLRC, will it be the employer or the employee who ends up the loser? Kuya C insisted it will always be the employer because of the organization’s racket they call social justice.
• E saw a python among the bushes at the back of their house and tried to shoot the beast with his revolver. Two magazines were spent. The python got killed but when they inspected the body, no bullet holes were found. What could have caused its death, you guess? The ears got impaired and shattered because of the loud rat-a-tat-tat.
• The frequent communication with a son or a daughter does not guarantee that everything will run smoothly or perfectly. A parent would always end being there for the child whatever happens. I couldn’t agree more but we do not tell our kids that. Papsie said, “Walang problema sa akin na mag-asawa agad, basta mayaman!” (No problem with me if she marries early provided that the guy is rich!” Everybody went crazy laughing.

It is so lovely to experience rural life once in a while but I doubt if I could stay very long or live in a community very different from what I got used to. E’s place has the amenities a person would need or want that eat my heart out, except for the telephone. But I feel so alien in this abundant rural place. Oh, well, who knows if I would get used to it, too, with a given situation.

Starting the Day Not Right

"You should have thought that I am not the kind of person who cannot discern what needs to be done. In every word that comes across, I had this trait of ALWAYS evaluating. Maybe that's why I always end up disappointed, depressed or frustrated. I need not be prompted because I know when something needs to be done. That is, if I have the means. I have learned to be responsible in any aspect. I am not driftwood that just goes along with life's current. I do something for life.

I could have uttered words to let you feel that I am really peeved. But words even failed me. It is because I am more than afraid for you; the weight of the situation is beyond your physical condition and emotional faculty. And love always nip rifts in the bud."

Starting the day not right is not right. But as always and maybe this is part of the whole package, there will be moments when we are dragged towards disgust. We then become thankful that this does not linger long because we don't want them to.

I chose to be silent and love him still.

They Sing Lupang Hinirang

There are times, on Mondays, that on my way to work, when vehicle color coding scheme does not allow transportation, I will be held off by the kagawad ng barangays in the middle of the street. All the pilgrims to work, school, or anywhere was compellingly prevented to continue the trek. Why so? Because the Lupang Hinirang is being sung and also, the Panatang Makabayan (the new one) is being recited in front of the barangay hall. The trek continues after the ceremony.

Anyone can be impressed because the practice is not being done in other barangays. But I cannot feel pride. I am even a loather of the practice. Who would feel good when you see the barangay officials singing the patriotic song and reciting the national pledge? It is all a show with their hands on the left chest while singing, and with it also raised to pledge.

They sing and recite and I cannot appreciate it. The act is void of the meaning of true and honest service. If you go and visit our barangay, the barangay building is converted into something like a big apartelle. It boggles me to think for what is the renovation? Is it to bring good service to the constituents? Will the construction of a bigger barangay hall with its many rooms contribute to the barangay residents' welfare? Are there significant projects to be housed in those rooms? Will the funds go to the destitute voters? I don't know but maybe there are some projects but there are no distinguishing ones that I remember.

In my more than a decade stay here in Papsie's place, I have not practically seen or witnessed or experienced something worthy as a valuable project. Take for example the basket ball court that was completed during the time of the current top official's term. It was not his accomplishment but that of the previous official's. After that, the basketball court has not improved while other barangays' basketball courts were aesthetically improved.

When one passes by the overpass with its many litters everyday, how can your temper not rise? Very seldom do I see this infra clean. On my way to the tricycle station, it is the everyday inconvenience that can drive anyone to curse the officials. There was a leak somewhere on that part of the road. It was like it rains everyday and the road is always flooded, the murky and stagnant water is a sore in the eye. Two of the counselors live nearby and I wonder again, don't they have eyes to see?

In our case, we had a domestic problem that we had already brought to court, because the top official did not help sincerely. It could have an earlier resolution from the barangay but because of the delays (for what clear reason, we don't know), the problem was brought to the national barangay council. He (the top official) even has the nerve to scorn the move when he had it pending in his records for months! Oh, I remember. Papsie's family and some relatives voted for his opponents last elections. Is that enough reason to delay or refuse service to a constituent when what he did was just exercise his voting rights? Besides, he is seated already and enjoying the benefits, or better, reaping the harvest. Why the bias?

It is really sad that in these units of the society, inefficiency prevails and relaxed service is provided. They are not even held accountable for the inefficiency and poor service.

There are still a lot of not so nice observations. And the guys have loyalists. But even the Marcoses have loyalists, too.

Why I Write Poems

I am not worthy to be labeled a poet, because I am not really a poet. But only a trying hard mortal with the effrontery to create verses that might not be that sensible or simply put, useless. However I write poems because I love poems. With them, you can feel one's soul, you can reach the unreachable, and you can go to a fairyland and into dreams. This is the reason why I created Thoughts in Verses. This is my vehicle to never never land. This is where I put into words whispers that float and that need to be written.

I write poems when I feel distressed.

Epistle 1
Heart's Struggle

I write poems when a friend leaves with the thought that I will seldom see her.

Remembering

I write poems when frightened.

Premature Love
To Be a Mother

I write poems when strangeness seems stranger than I ever imagined.

D

I write poems to reminisce.

He Breathed His Last

I write poems when I am overwhelmed by love then wish that everything will always be fine with him.

Going to a Dream Land

I write poems when I feel ecstatically sexy. (Is there such a thing?)

Haiku Attempt
About Carnal Thoughts

I write poems when 'inspired by a Korean TV series'. And I don't care if it is baduy.

From Afar

I write poems, too, when I am contemplative after banging my head to the tricycle's entry. And that is because the silly passenger who got in first didnt want to move further inside.

Cycle

Sorry, folks, this maybe the result of that agonizing thud.

Why I Write Poems

I am not worthy to be labeled a poet, because I am not really a poet. But only a trying hard mortal with the effrontery to create verses that might not be that sensible or simply put, useless. However I write poems because I love poems. With them, you can feel one's soul, you can reach the unreachable, and you can go to a fairyland and into dreams. This is the reason why I created Thoughts in Verses. This is my vehicle to never never land. This is where I put into words whispers that float and that need to be written.

I write poems when I feel distressed.

Epistle 1
Heart's Struggle

I write poems when a friend leaves with the thought that I will seldom see her.

Remembering

I write poems when frightened.

Premature Love
To Be a Mother

I write poems when strangeness seems stranger than I ever imagined.

D

I write poems to reminisce.

He Breathed His Last

I write poems when I am overwhelmed by love then wish that everything will always be fine with him.

Going to a Dream Land

I write poems when I feel ecstatically sexy. (Is there such a thing?)

Haiku Attempt
About Carnal Thoughts

I write poems when 'inspired by a Korean TV series'. And I don't care if it is baduy.

From Afar

I write poems, too, when I am contemplative after banging my head to the tricycle's entry. And that is because the silly passenger who got in first didnt want to move further inside.

Cycle

Sorry, folks, this maybe the result of that agonizing thud.

Professing Christians

Many declare openly their faith in God. One can truly admire the zealots that roam in every country sharing with their acts of faith and words of wisdom. There is nothing wrong, I think, with it. Because we are all given the privilege to worship God, in what we think, say or do.

But sometimes, the zealots become stumbling blocks. They claim that God saved them from the pits of hell and so one must pray for forgiveness and accept the good news of salvation. No problem with that. But faith without deeds is dead (James 2:26). How about person ‘A’ who religiously attends bible studies every Friday of each week but cannot control her tongue and spreads words that does not contribute to a person’s well-being? Or person ‘B’ who does not know how to keep her promises and is always missing when somebody needs her help, and will be heard often that “No problem, you just need to pray”? Or person ‘C’ who is affluent and with many connections but is so insensitive of a relative’s cry for assistance in job seeking? Or person ‘D’ who is very diligent sending Christian messages but does not really care how his friend is faring>

Yea, faith is not about them. But they are bearers of good news, suppose to be. They have to act their faith. They have to be sincere. They have to be what they claim to be – SAVED FROM DAMNATION.

I have nothing against them. I am just sick of the superficiality.

Professing Christians

Many declare openly their faith in God. One can truly admire the zealots that roam in every country sharing with their acts of faith and words of wisdom. There is nothing wrong, I think, with it. Because we are all given the privilege to worship God, in what we think, say or do.

But sometimes, the zealots become stumbling blocks. They claim that God saved them from the pits of hell and so one must pray for forgiveness and accept the good news of salvation. No problem with that. But faith without deeds is dead (James 2:26). How about person ‘A’ who religiously attends bible studies every Friday of each week but cannot control her tongue and spreads words that does not contribute to a person’s well-being? Or person ‘B’ who does not know how to keep her promises and is always missing when somebody needs her help, and will be heard often that “No problem, you just need to pray”? Or person ‘C’ who is affluent and with many connections but is so insensitive of a relative’s cry for assistance in job seeking? Or person ‘D’ who is very diligent sending Christian messages but does not really care how his friend is faring>

Yea, faith is not about them. But they are bearers of good news, suppose to be. They have to act their faith. They have to be sincere. They have to be what they claim to be – SAVED FROM DAMNATION.

I have nothing against them. I am just sick of the superficiality.

He Did It Again

My son, Daryl, did it again. When he had his field trip, he made me experience fear. Why does he have to let me experience it again?

My son is not fond of cel phones although I bought one for him. It is a tool, as most of us regard it, to keep in touch with others, and most especially with him, if necessary. It is vital because it is the easiest way for us to communicate about what he needs for his school projects, about his whereabouts, or about important matters that need to be relayed immediately. I had repeatedly told him all these.

Nevertheless, Daryl did not develop a liking to cellular phones. He even shuts it down in order to save energy for the battery (his usual rant). We always discuss that cel phones should be activated because it was conceived to serve the purpose of sending and receiving messages and calls. I even emphasized that it is very useful for emergency situations. He argues that it is not practical for him to switch it on all the time because he does not use the device often aside from the fact that he has no constant text mates.

I was so tired out of his reasoning and to end the argument, I would always give a deep sigh with “Naku naman, Daryl!” (almost like “You are impossible, Daryl!”) He would just stare at me blankly or keep quiet or smile timidly. End of discussion.

Then came Tuesday when I had rendered OT. When I reached home it was 6:35 pm. I immediately saw Kay’s troubled look, “Ma, wala pa si Daryl.” (“Ma, Daryl has not arrived yet.”) There was a hiss from Papsie as if preventing her to utter the words and I heard something like, “Anak, ba’t sinabi mo agad? Mali, e…” (“Why did you tell her about it at once, my daughter? Ill-timed…”) I flared up and asked the two of them what then did they do about it. They stammered as they mumbled reasons, and the words fell incoherent. I tried very hard to keep calm but I was not able to. I was petrified of the fact that he was late one and a half hours. He was never late going home from school without an advice. He is also a type not fond of going out with peers, or staying outside our home late. He is so unlike Kay.

What I remember was I went upstairs twice but I can’t remember why. I changed my footwear to slippers and rushed towards the highway. I was praying while traversing the road to the highway, and I was in fear. “My God, it does not matter how many digital cameras will be lost, but not my son,” I kept mumbling.

I reached the highway, numb with apprehension. I did not meet Daryl along the way not like when he went home late from the field trip that I met him halfway. “God, where is Daryl?” Each moment was like an eon, each passing second was like torture. Each passer by was scanned. Nobody resembles Daryl. “God, it is almost 7 o’clock. Please keep him safe and away from harm.” Then from the dark corners of the overpass stairs came a familiar figure, head down while walking, pantomiming Danaya, or Amihan, or Pirena, or Alena (whoever) as they summon their powerful stones, and oblivious of everything around him. “It is Daryl!” I shouted silently. “God, thank you very much.”

When he lifted his face, as if coming out from a vortex of another world, he smiled uneasily, “Ma, we had a practice.” I replied in a controlled voice, “Daryl naman, be responsible. You could have at least made a call.” Then he replied, “Everybody was out of load, and I did not see a telephone around. The place is a basketball court.” I kept silent after a few words but still had many things in mind left unspoken. I decided to discuss them when we reach home. My son still has a lot to learn about life.

The Folly of a Miracle

(a third attempt to short story writing)
A couple from Quezon has twins, the youngest among the brood of four. The girls brought joy, from time to time they were born, to the unfortunate couple that depends only on the scanty income they get from selling balut, a Filipino delicacy which is a fertilised egg with a partially developed duckling and eaten boiled.

The girls fondly call their mother Ina, Genoveva to everybody, and their father Amang. The grandmother, who they identify as Inang, and the mother of their Ina, loves the twins very much. The love, if truth were told, is an extension of her partiality to their Ina. Among her children, it is the girls’ mother who is favored among the seven children Inang have. They have one thing in common – their penchant for chatter about everything and anyone in the neighborhood. Because of this, life is not that difficult for the girls and their parents because Inang is at all times ready to come to their rescue. Amang, knowing his mother-in-law's bias took advantage of the situation, and did not bother anymore to look for a decent job to support his family.

One day, Genoveva rushes to Inang, excitedly announcing, “Inang! A miracle, Inang!” Inang replies with excitement, too, “What happened?” Genoveva breathlessly narrates what transpired in their house. She begins by recounting that Bebang, one of the twins, awoke after an afternoon nap. When Bebang got up, Genoveva continues, she noticed something tucked under her pillow, a small, yellow-greenish folded sheet of paper. To her curiosity, she pulled the pillow and lo a five hundred-peso bill was there. According to her, she asked Bebang where she got the money to which the girl replied that she has nothing to do with it. Bebang said, “Ina, maybe it is Sto. Niño’s miracle.” Genoveva was dumbfounded with the reply when suddenly, Bebeng, the other twin, awoke, too, and shouted, “Ina, look! There is money under my pillow!” Gasping for air, she repeats, “Inang, truly the Sto. Niño granted us a miracle! Those are two five-hundred-peso bills. My husband does not earn that much, even for three days!” The elderly woman, though confounded, agrees by saying, “Pehaps the Sto. Niño took pity on you and your family.”

The next day, the family goes to the grocery store to buy food and other supplies. Astonishingly, Genoveva did not relate the incident to the neighborhood, a different approach which is not her usual behavior of announcing to everybody even up to the littlest of details.

Days passed, and then one day again, Inang does her usual routine in the kitchen. She did not notice that Bebeng passes by and goes inside her room surreptitiously. Inang notices that room’s (which is adjacent to the kitchen) door suddenly made a quick sound like there is somebody who had just got in. After a while, while she was finishing the chores in the kitchen, her door opens. To her amazement, it is Bebeng, emerging from the room. “Hey, what are you doing in my room?” Bebeng’s retort was short and upset,”Ina asked me to find the magazine you borrowed.” “Did you find it?” “No, Inang, I did not find the magazine.”

Two days passed like all the other wearisome days of the week. Inang calls for Berto, her youngest son, the third day, and tells him to buy her medicine. She opens her small pouch bag and looks for the one hundred-peso bill. She did not find one. After frantically seaching inside the pouch, she yells at Berto, “Where is my money?” “Why do you ask me? I have never touched that bag. I don’t even know you have a pouch bag.” “Oh, my God, Berto, I have a one hundred-peso bill her! Who stole my money?” Berto is upset when he replies, “Inang, do not ever think that I steal from you. I will never do that.”

Sadly, Inang asks Berto to call her Ate Genoveva. Genoveva arrives, bustling as if expecting good news. “Inang, what is it?” Inang narrates with a heavy heart that money is missing from her pouch bag. Genoveva is puzzled but continues to listen. Inang goes on with a plea to ask Bebeng if she got the money. Hearing this, Genoveva explodes and tells Inang that her twins will not do anything like that. However, she promises that she will talk to Bebeng.

Without the bustle when she returns, Genoveva cries silently and narrated that Bebeng and Bebang are accomplices of each other. Bebeng steals, and Bebang keeps the money. Inang is silent, and decides not to tell her anymore that the two five hundred-peso bills she had enclosed in her bible are missing.

The Folly of a Miracle

(a third attempt to short story writing)
A couple from Quezon has twins, the youngest among the brood of four. The girls brought joy, from time to time they were born, to the unfortunate couple that depends only on the scanty income they get from selling balut, a Filipino delicacy which is a fertilised egg with a partially developed duckling and eaten boiled.

The girls fondly call their mother Ina, Genoveva to everybody, and their father Amang. The grandmother, who they identify as Inang, and the mother of their Ina, loves the twins very much. The love, if truth were told, is an extension of her partiality to their Ina. Among her children, it is the girls’ mother who is favored among the seven children Inang have. They have one thing in common – their penchant for chatter about everything and anyone in the neighborhood. Because of this, life is not that difficult for the girls and their parents because Inang is at all times ready to come to their rescue. Amang, knowing his mother-in-law's bias took advantage of the situation, and did not bother anymore to look for a decent job to support his family.

One day, Genoveva rushes to Inang, excitedly announcing, “Inang! A miracle, Inang!” Inang replies with excitement, too, “What happened?” Genoveva breathlessly narrates what transpired in their house. She begins by recounting that Bebang, one of the twins, awoke after an afternoon nap. When Bebang got up, Genoveva continues, she noticed something tucked under her pillow, a small, yellow-greenish folded sheet of paper. To her curiosity, she pulled the pillow and lo a five hundred-peso bill was there. According to her, she asked Bebang where she got the money to which the girl replied that she has nothing to do with it. Bebang said, “Ina, maybe it is Sto. Niño’s miracle.” Genoveva was dumbfounded with the reply when suddenly, Bebeng, the other twin, awoke, too, and shouted, “Ina, look! There is money under my pillow!” Gasping for air, she repeats, “Inang, truly the Sto. Niño granted us a miracle! Those are two five-hundred-peso bills. My husband does not earn that much, even for three days!” The elderly woman, though confounded, agrees by saying, “Pehaps the Sto. Niño took pity on you and your family.”

The next day, the family goes to the grocery store to buy food and other supplies. Astonishingly, Genoveva did not relate the incident to the neighborhood, a different approach which is not her usual behavior of announcing to everybody even up to the littlest of details.

Days passed, and then one day again, Inang does her usual routine in the kitchen. She did not notice that Bebeng passes by and goes inside her room surreptitiously. Inang notices that room’s (which is adjacent to the kitchen) door suddenly made a quick sound like there is somebody who had just got in. After a while, while she was finishing the chores in the kitchen, her door opens. To her amazement, it is Bebeng, emerging from the room. “Hey, what are you doing in my room?” Bebeng’s retort was short and upset,”Ina asked me to find the magazine you borrowed.” “Did you find it?” “No, Inang, I did not find the magazine.”

Two days passed like all the other wearisome days of the week. Inang calls for Berto, her youngest son, the third day, and tells him to buy her medicine. She opens her small pouch bag and looks for the one hundred-peso bill. She did not find one. After frantically seaching inside the pouch, she yells at Berto, “Where is my money?” “Why do you ask me? I have never touched that bag. I don’t even know you have a pouch bag.” “Oh, my God, Berto, I have a one hundred-peso bill her! Who stole my money?” Berto is upset when he replies, “Inang, do not ever think that I steal from you. I will never do that.”

Sadly, Inang asks Berto to call her Ate Genoveva. Genoveva arrives, bustling as if expecting good news. “Inang, what is it?” Inang narrates with a heavy heart that money is missing from her pouch bag. Genoveva is puzzled but continues to listen. Inang goes on with a plea to ask Bebeng if she got the money. Hearing this, Genoveva explodes and tells Inang that her twins will not do anything like that. However, she promises that she will talk to Bebeng.

Without the bustle when she returns, Genoveva cries silently and narrated that Bebeng and Bebang are accomplices of each other. Bebeng steals, and Bebang keeps the money. Inang is silent, and decides not to tell her anymore that the two five hundred-peso bills she had enclosed in her bible are missing.

Reading Between the Lines

Yesterday, and really unexpected, somebody sent a text message to me. The number is not familiar and definitely not in my phone book. I recognized it is not a cel phone number. I realized later on that it came from a text chat feature of a known on line community. Usually this kind of service is free. The text came from a long time acquaintance, that I couldn't consider a friend. Honestly, the level is still within that, nothing more than what can be derived from the rate of communication we have.

Unfortunately, I decided before posting to delete the exchange of short messages which I had included in this entry. To summarize, I was amused, entertained then irked.

After repeating the first line that was sent, I did not reply anymore. The conceited creature assumed too much. He thought he could maneuver the world with his wild imaginations and insensibilities. He must have thought that I am an easy prey, and with the superficial messages, I can be lead on.

I could just read between the lines and I know a friend could not do that, sending messages that are not really meant. I must be overreacting or onion-skinned. But I am not praise-hungry nor adulation-crazy. I know when a message is of pure intention.

I don't know... I maybe just touchy.

Or I was more insulted than sweet-talked.

Reading Between the Lines

Yesterday, and really unexpected, somebody sent a text message to me. The number is not familiar and definitely not in my phone book. I recognized it is not a cel phone number. I realized later on that it came from a text chat feature of a known on line community. Usually this kind of service is free. The text came from a long time acquaintance, that I couldn't consider a friend. Honestly, the level is still within that, nothing more than what can be derived from the rate of communication we have.

Unfortunately, I decided before posting to delete the exchange of short messages which I had included in this entry. To summarize, I was amused, entertained then irked.

After repeating the first line that was sent, I did not reply anymore. The conceited creature assumed too much. He thought he could maneuver the world with his wild imaginations and insensibilities. He must have thought that I am an easy prey, and with the superficial messages, I can be lead on.

I could just read between the lines and I know a friend could not do that, sending messages that are not really meant. I must be overreacting or onion-skinned. But I am not praise-hungry nor adulation-crazy. I know when a message is of pure intention.

I don't know... I maybe just touchy.

Or I was more insulted than sweet-talked.

Will It Feel Good (At Last)?

A good friend of mine recently ditched his significant other. The connection seemed to have gradually become less binding. The romance seemed to have become more and more dispassionate. That’s how I read the whole account, as this friend is not a kababayan but a foreigner. Honestly, I am not sure how to react with what had happened to him because I do not know him personally, as in person.

What baffles me is my good friend feels this feeling of gratitude now. From the feeling of loneliness and despair comes the overwhelming sense of peace, he said.

I feel sorry that it had to end for the both of them. I always treasure relationships. I am the type who would stick by my beloved no matter what. For me, it would be real pain to be without the one I love. I could always easily part company but not with the people that matters most to me.

But his story is not my story. He must have hurt but was able to face it, including the loss, and the fear, and the life that is ahead (which would probably be DIFFERENT now).

From deep inside, I am hurt for him because he seems to be a very loving father to a son, and a sensible one, too. There could be stories within stories and who am I to criticize anybody on moral grounds? I just have to say that I felt he wanted VERY MUCH to make it work, and it didn’t. So he had to move.

Will it really feel good (at last)? I wish the best FOR HIM...

-----

As I was contemplating about the whole thing, a favorite song was played... by Sade.

By Your Side

You think I'd leave your side baby?

You know me better than that

You think I'd leave down when your down on your knees?

I wouldn't do that

I'll do you right when your wrong

I-----ohhh, ohhh

If only you could see into me

oh, when your cold I'll be there to hold you tight to me

When your on the outside baby and you can't get in

I will show you, your so much better than you know

When your lost, when your alone and you can't get back again

I will find you darling I'll bring you home

If you want to cry

I am here to dry your eyes

and in no time you'll be fine

You think I'd leave your side baby

You know me better than that

You think I'd leave you down when your down on your knees

I wouldn't do that

I'll do you right when your wrong

I-----I, ohhhh, ohhh

If only you could see into me

Oh when your cold

I'll be there

To hold you tight to me

Oh when your alone

I'll be there by your side baby

The Little Boy

(A second attempt to short story writing.)

Wendell was aboard a passenger’s jeep that early morning of June 1. She was on her way to the university. For the first time, she will be earlier than her buddy, Eileen.

Lola Abbey gave her this morning an 18K gold necklace with a shimmering crucifix pendant made of gold, too. She was a favorite. Wendell knew it. No apo was doted like her. She felt blessed being treated that way.

As the jeepney started rolling slowly, a little boy, barefooted, dressed in what seemed like rags and oversized clothing, jumped aboard holding onto the jeepney’s railing. Everybody inside the jeep almost shouted. Their stomach heaved at the sight of the little boy hanging on the jeepney’s railings. “Hey, little boy! You might fall. Come inside!” an elderly man said to the boy. The little boy just smiled showing his teeth with cavities, but looking stonily at Wendell, who was seated just next to the railing.

Another woman coaxed the little boy, “Little boy, come inside. I have food for you.” At an instant, without warning, the little boy grabbed the necklace from Wendell with his right hand, and slipped from the jeepney, which was moving faster now, unscathed. He then raised his hand with the necklace like that of a trophy being awarded to a winner, and zigzagged across the street, sidestepping among the vehicles that were racing on that highway.

Wendell was shocked, and so were the other passengers, too. Regaining from it, she shouted with all her might, “Hey, give me that! Give me back my necklace!” She continued shouting though the boy was nowhere in sight already. Then a passenger beside tried to comfort her and told her it was all right. “Anyway,” said the woman, “it could be replaced anytime.” To which Wendell cried the more saying, “But it was my Lola Abbey’s gift to me. She had given it to me this morning.” “We can’t do anything about it anymore, Miss,” a younger man stressed, ”Those kids are street smart. We can never find him anywhere. Just tell your grandma that it was snatched from you. It is not your fault.”

The whole day was like a day of mourning for Wendell. Her Lola Abbey was very kind enough to understand when she learned of the upsetting incident. She told Wendell it was not her fault and pacified her with a hug and a pat on her shoulder.

A month had passed and it was like Wendell had forgotten about that ill-fated day. She had to buy a Bible at a store along the boulevard. When she reached the intersection where her necklace was snatched, she boarded off the jeepney and trailed a narrow street to the store. Her eyes slit like that of a cat’s upon seeing a familiar figure along the narrow street. There among a crowd of street children was the same little boy who took her necklace. He was still wearing the same oversized pair of clothing, the neckline of the shirt hanging loose on one of his shoulders this time. He was frolicking with the other little boys, talking incomprehensibly, like a drunken man, only that he was just a little boy.

Wendell walked briskly towards the little boy when suddenly a yell from a woman ensued. “Alonto!” cried the untidy, squattish woman addressing the little boy. The little boy suddenly stopped as if expecting something from the woman. His expectation came as a forceful rap on his head landed. “What is it, ‘Nay?” touching the portion of the head that received the abuse. “Where are your earnings?” The little boy scratched his head then replied, “E, ‘Nay, I was not able to find, e..” To which he received a more forceful rap on his head again. “How will you find money if you are here playing? Hah? Move! We have nothing to eat for supper!”

Alonto passed by where Wendell was. He did not even remember Wendell. He walks scratching his head, looking more like perplexed than worried. He looked thinner and his eyes were hollow. His cheekbones are more prominent than anything in his face and the lips are very pale.

A tear fell from Wendell’s face. The necklace’s worth is nothing compared to the loss of this boy’s youth.

One All Saint's Day

All Saint’s Day will always be remembered. How could Kay forget this unforgettable day?

Every first of November, by tradition, Papsie and everybody, including my kids, and me would visit the grave of the beloved ones. It is always a day of gathering, meeting relatives we haven’t seen for a long time. Tiring it maybe, especially for Papsie, who is always tired the whole of the week for the preparation; it is always a day of excitement (??). I know, I know, it should not be the case because it should be a time for commemorating the day for the departed loved ones. But you can’t blame the young because this is one of the few times they would see each other again and talk about many things as if there would be no more days to come. The young always seek for fun and excitement, and November 1 is not excluded.

Papsie and I would always go home first after lunch time then they would be fetched around 5 pm or 6 pm, whichever time they wished Papsie would be back. That time of November 1 last year the road was really in a jam so when they texted Papsie, he replied that he would be around 7 pm because he does not want to be caught in the gridlock.

When the group came home, my sister-in-law muttered that Kay was in shock. I asked in alarm what had happened. She was just starting to tell me the whole story (that a boy in his teens touched her crotch while walking with her male cousin to buy pizza outside the cemetery) when Kay burst out crying, enbracing me in tears. She wasn’t able to narrate the whole incident immediately. The group decided not to tell Papsie because of their concern that his BP will rise. That must have been very difficult for my daughter because she wanted to release the fright from the incident.

It turned out that her male cousin offered to buy pizza thinking that Papsie would be back late. Kay offered to go with him, being that chummy with this cousin of hers. Kay suddenly stopped walking, mouth wide open, and eyes, too. She turned her head to see who the assailant was and she saw the teenager still looking at her. Her cousin noticed the reaction and asked if a valuable was taken from her. Kay suddenly cried telling him, "Nahipuan ako!" (Somebody touched me!) "Sino? Sino?" (Who did that to you?) The guy’s gone and they decided to go back, Kay in tears. Hearing that, my brother-in-law went to the police detachment that was there with the description Kay gave. They weren’t able to find the teenager.

Papsie came at the cemetery without a hint because Kay was instructed to be silent for his father's sake. It was only then he knew what happened when he came into the house after settling the car. Kay hugged Papsie and cried so hard. We tried to console her and assured her that that was nothing. A cousin, in her desire to comfort her, told her, "’Wag mo nang isipin ‘yan, matatanggal sa paligo ‘yan!" (Don’t think about it anymore, just take a bath and it’ll be gone!" Dra. Cathy also took her part of giving solace by narrating her near-death ordeal with a hoodlum taxi driver and his cohorts.

I knew that time our efforts were vain attempts to make her forget the incident. But Kay felt that everybody was there for her and nothing had changed her person.

That was a year ago. Last November 1, when we were at the cemetery, she told everybody it is her ‘anniversary’, remorse not evident anymore.