Brief Visitor

I had what was probably one of the briefest dreams of my life, that of my brother Benjie, last night. I was unsure at first whether it was a real dream or not; I thought it could have been one of those random thoughts and images that I usually have between wakefulness and slumber. But I woke up from it, and so concluded it was a dream indeed.


We must have been engaged in banter, judging by the expressions on our faces. We had smiles, and I had my right arm fully on his shoulders, pulling him close, almost like an embrace; something that I do only in instances when I have an unmistakable communion of heart and mind and soul with, or unmistakable love for, someone.

Could it have been really Benjie visiting me in a dream? He knew that I've always dismissed ghosts as laughable products of a hyperactive imagination. Mom also knew of how I stubbornly cling to my beliefs, and so did not bother visiting me. She didn't want to waste her time. Up until now, I wish I hadn't been so vocal with her concerning my relegating ghosts to the realm of superstitions. Then she would have paid me a ghostly visit. Benjie, on the other hand, probably couldn't care less if I believed his apparition or not. I was simply on his agenda of visits before finally departing to where he was destined to be.

When the six of us were kids, a most wonderful time in our lives (and not entirely an impossibility, since I was 14 when Bennett, our youngest, was born, and teens during my time didn't mature as early as the teens of today, believe it or not), we hadn't a thought about death and mortality. Of course, we knew people die, and we had kin who did pass on, like Dad's own mom who died in the early 70's. It had to be my first time to see him in tears, still very dignified but in tears, as he hastily packed an overnight bag to go to San Antonio, Nueva Ecija, more than a hundred kilometers north of Manila, his hometown and where Lola lived. Being the eldest, I accompanied him. It was the middle of the night. We took the family car, at the time a red, two-door, white top convertible Chevy Nova. His elder brother, Tito Danny, was with us, including (if my memory serves me right), his sister, Tita Etang, and Danny's wife, Tita Hermie. We stopped by for flowers at the Paco Market. Mom and the rest of the brood followed by bus the very next day. But like I said, we were kids, and a rosy, unfettered future lay ahead and beckoned.

Had Benjie known that his life would be somewhat brief, then he would have done some things differently. This is not to say that he did mostly regrettable things; we all have our share of them, it is unavoidable. But he could have been in a real hurry, and possibly became one of those child prodigies. Or he could have become a total wastrel, cowered in fear, and waited for his appointed time. He could have been totally different, perhaps obsessed with completing things as much as and as soon as possible. He could have decided that all those children's games we played were a total waste of his precious, limited time. I could have missed having my first real sibling, playmate, and friend. He could have missed out on the true essence of living.

Thankfully, life is a mystery, with secrets that, in my opinion, should remain as such. It has enough of it to make us feel powerless and resigned, precursors to approaching it either philosophically, or angrily and head-on. The former predisposes to a life well-lived, imperfect but well-lived; the latter, to one that is mad and self-destructive.

Again, we were kids, and I don't believe we could have conducted ourselves and thought with this level of sophistication. Our preoccupations were games and toys and all the other things children's dreams are made of. We lived life like tomorrows would never ever run out. I am so grateful that we saw life and the world through innocent eyes. Everything was pure and unadulterated. We gradually outgrew our innocence, of course, and were exposed to life's harshness. Love, however, life's progenitor and antidote, will be with us until the very end.