Old but not quite
A song plays and it paints a familiar air of ominous tunes in the still air.
Old but not quite.
Surely does not feel likew thirty-six…
Especially with the shackles tight around my hands and feet. I am a prisoner and I drag painstakingly along, creating screeching sounds that deafen in the silence of the night.
I missed Papa the most yesterday. I don’t always think of him, I confess. I think I’ve compartmentalized a big chunk of that reality to cope… so most of the time I forget about him and then surges of memories come at different times of the day, especially when I’m driving or when I pass by his office. When this happens I feel a deep hurt in my chest and I cannot breathe. Then I remember he’s gone and I’ll feel tears run down my cheeks, and I’ll wipe it right away. Sometimes I even find myself shaking my head, like when you’re trying to get rid of a bad thought. I don’t like being sad. I know my being sad won’t really bring my Papa back, so I don’t want to remember him that way.
If my Papa were alive today, I don’t think he’d allow me to join the mission team in the mountains of Mindoro. A military man, he was the enemy of the LEFT, and in fact we weren’t allowed to enroll in UP for he feared we’re too gullible and just find ourselves in the mountains. I don’t know. But if my Papa were alive today, I’d tell him the ceasefire is real where I came from.
“In this world, nothing can be said to be certain except Death and Taxes”
Early last year, a friend’s mom passed away. A few months after, I attended another funeral and not long after that, a friend’s dad fell seriously ill. It left me distraught. I talked to my mom about it and she said, “It’s the circle of life. You are born, you live, and you die. And for people my age, we are slowly coming to our end”. She is right of course. Ben Franklin was right too. Everyone eventually meets their end (although some earlier than expected) we all go through the same story, albeit with differing twists and turns. You’re born, you live, you die.
A few years ago I began watching The Good Wife. I cannot remember why I started. but back then I thought it was a family drama–the story of a bad husband, a good wife and a string of women (on the side), but it was more than that. If you journeyed with Alicia Florrick through 7 seasons, you are familiar with her personal liberation. A lowly housewife, pushed into the limelight because of a scandal, she fought through the treacherous road, picked herself up and rode the waves.
During Papa’s wake I had a momentary lapse while I was talking to one of my girl friends:
Friend: I think your dad knew my husband’s dad, he was a military doctor. I think they were assigned here in Villamor around the same time.
Crix: Maybe. Maybe they were here together and knew each other. What’s his name?
Friend: Dr. ________________
Crix: Ahhhh, okay I got it.
And within seconds I slapped her hard on the shoulder. I slapped her so hard because after she gave me the name, I made a mental note to ask my Papa, and then realized that I couldn’t do that anymore. Papa is gone so he could never answer my question. For a moment there, I immediately jumped to a familiar practice and forgot that he is gone. Papa is gone… and there is no remedy to that.