too much for a 7-year-old

It was a morning not of the usual for when she went out of the room, the air just seemed uncomfortable. She went to the sala and found something more unusual: a box. Rectangular, hard, and white. She looked inside and found her mother. What's a 7-year-old to know? It was a casket.

She wondered why her mom was lying inside that white box. She looked at her face and thought she was sleeping, looked at her body and realized she wasn't. What's a 7-year-old to know? The body wasn't breathing. The life that loved her so much wasn't there anymore.

The loss of life. She ran to her room. What's a 7-year-old to do? She cried. Her sisters weren't there to comfort her.

But her daddy was. What's a father to do? He hugged her.

"What's wrong?"


"Your mommy?"


"Don't worry. I will never leave you. Everything's gonna be alright."

What's a 7-year-old to do? Believe.

What's a father to do? Be there for his children. In every step of the way.

He did that. Enduringly.

After she told her anecdote to her sisters which they only heard after 9 years, there was a long silence. What were daddy's girls to do? They could take the deafening silence. But not the emotions that struck them that night. However, the darkness was there to cover for them and their tears.

Stupid Mask

As i crossed the streets this morning, I saw this lady in a simple jeans-and-shirt get up with a not so simple make up. Her cheeks were too tinted like that of the pink uniform I was wearing and her skin was as white as snow white's, like she was punched right on her both cheeks and a pool of blood rushed through them.

So I was standing right next to her, waiting for a jeepney. Constantly looking on the road searching for my route choice, an American passed by from the lady's side. He passed in front of her and stopped to look at both of us clearly. I thought he was gonna ask some directions but then he looked at curiously the lady beside me and said with a mad face and tone like he was someone of authority,

"What the hell happened to your face?"

I didn't look at the scene like most people usually do when they see a foreigner pass by. But thanks to my peripheral vision, I could see at least an "overview." The woman took a few steps away from the man then the man continued,

"Such a pretty face covered with a stupid mask."

Then he went on walking. Could he be anymore unfeeling? Did he even know that I could hear his voice from where I was standing or that what he actually said was too cruel for a stranger to take just standing there minding her own thing?

Other side of the coin, her make up was just really too... much. Others' opinions should be sought before going on public view. That's how my sisters come in handy too, especially my second sister whose eyes and tongue are too honest. Who would want to be humiliated when you put on something on you to look good? Or so you thought.

So much for face paints.


Happy Birthday

I may not have been there during your last hours, but you were in my mind and heart. I was too excited to see you when I was about to perform on stage, then your daughter called me and everything changed.

To the woman who loved me so much, too much
...the woman whose face I resemble most
...the woman I miss so much
...the woman who turned 53 today,

Happy Birthday.

It's been 9 years. Our "what if's" still go on. It's hard to stop dreaming when there's so much to remember.

Her birthday is on the 2nd of April.

the man i quite miss

He would come over at least once a week, dropping a call before he did. He'd stay for an hour or more, listening to me. No, he's not my lover. He brought me gifts on my special day, whether it was something I asked from him or not. Sometimes he would drop by our store to make a call, and I'd be glad to see him for a short while. He would talk with my dad, conversations I weren't so interested in yet. I was too young then.

He was the first grown up man I've met, the man my father introduced me without my consent, but then I later learned to love; the man I showed off my discovery of the notes I learned to play. He was the man who taught me the beautiful pieces I played during parties when people would gather around me and praise me for what my fingers beheld, the man who celebrated with us during my limelight moments, the man who saw me grow up to my early puberty years.

He was the man who drove us home that very silent rainy night when my mom passed away. Then he stopped coming. My dad needed all the silence and solitude in the world. Let alone a visitor for music sessions. And eventually I stopped playing the piano. He came over hardly ever, only to make a call when he happened to pass by our place.

The last time I saw him was on the newspaper. And the last time I heard of him was long ago in the jeepney, when I was sitting beside the driver and saw his ID bearing the same family name of the man I quite miss tonight. I heard some news, good and bad, but enough to make me happy to be in touch with him through some driver I just met.
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