Secrets

In a way, I look forward to my own demise. I believe that when we die, answers to life's questions are revealed to us; those that nag intelligent and stupid people alike: Like, are heaven and hell real places? What is the design of the universe? Does it end in an edge somewhere, or is it curved, thereby imprisoning us in some sort of vast, magnificent sphere? Death is the great equalizer then. It reveals the answers to life's mysteries with whosoever it grips, whether interested or otherwise, ready or not.


This whole business of life is tiresome, and I look forward to other things. Here, it's either good or bad, virtue or sin, happy or sad, plenty or want, success or failure. Or is this the law of the universe, that even in the afterlife it's either heaven or hell? Is there no in-between bliss, a limbo of untainted joy?


When I finally go, I hope it will be quick and unexpected, with none of that prolonged suffering or drama or grief. I just want to get it over with.

A Skype Chat

I had a morning after-Christmas, online chat with my father and my siblings and their respective families. It was all very pleasant. They just had their wonderful Christmas dinner, were trading banter, and preparing for the major part of the gathering, the opening of gifts. My two nephews and niece did what little children are supposed to do: Provide a backdrop of gleeful chaos and the purest, most innocent laughter. I was once a part of this annual event, some seven Christmases ago when I spent my holidays with them. It was a Christmas like all other joyous family occasions; happiness and laughter overflowed, everyone was there (save for my wife and children who were back home), and thoughts of mortality were farthest from our minds.

Our Mom passed away a month ago, and when the idea of a chat was born, and while we were on it, I was asking myself why we didn't do it before when she was still with us. Perhaps we took things for granted, like we do when we feel that things are in their proper places, with nothing amiss. And when everyone was there and alive and kicking, things indeed were in their proper places.

Mothers and fathers complete families, and when one of them is gone, those left behind reach out to fill the void. We reached out today to fill the space Mom left behind, to complete the circle once more. All good, I should say. Oh, Mom always completed the circle so wonderfully! We always felt secure and complete. She was among life's reliable constants. A bit enigmatic at times, but she was always there. I miss her terribly.

Christmases Past

My Christmas this year is mostly reminiscences of Christmases when I was a child, and up to the time I became a young adult. In those days, the family was complete; everyone was there; our cares were few, life was simpler, the future beckoned, but it could wait.

I often tell my own children that a family's most wonderful times are those when the children are growing up, the family kept together by the strong bond of love. These moments should be savored, and then committed to memory; so that when life or death impose themselves upon those we love, we can summon them and enjoy once more the splendor and happiness they brought us.

I'm grateful that as a child I was made to believe in the supposed existence of Santa Claus. Others may argue that the practice is deceptive, but I think it teaches about anonymous generosity. Most people don't want to remain anonymous when they give. They want to advertise their magnanimity. How else can you explain publicity photos of city and town bureaucrats pointing to donated trash bins, or to roads they have interceded for to get repaired or constructed, or those that show them running to the rescue of the victims of natural and mostly man-made tragedies that visit this archipelago? Our inclination is to be generous and popular.

My Santa Clauses (Yes, I had two!) were two selfless people. More than all the toys I received, their greatest gift was the life lesson that genuine giving does not seek anything in return. I shall always be indebted and grateful to them for the gift that lasts lifetimes.

For My Mother, A Poem

You left quietly
on a Sunday,
on your end, as it was breaking,
on mine, as it was coming
to a close.

Always with fondness
will I recall my first
faltering steps; should I
falter now, you won't be
there

To soothe
my hurt pride, to persuade
me to try again, to assure
my puny, fearful soul
of your permanence.

You, as all good mothers are,
were a gift from God,
for children you saw as
heaven-sent, and not
the little devils we truly were.

You were dutiful
in each thing
you did: We had a mother,
a teacher, a friend,
and my father, a wife.

I will miss you
in many things, places, events
from hereon; and
from hereon as well
I will find you in everything beautiful.

A Letter To My Mom

Wrote my Mom an e-mail today. She's been in the hospital for about a month now; been in and out of the ICU, on and off the ventilator; afflicted with complications mostly related to her lungs; their names all terrible-sounding. She also has decubitus ulcers. Things are not looking too good. Here is that letter:


Dear Mommy,

Perhaps you have neither the time nor energy to read this letter now, as you wage a difficult battle against your illnesses. I know it's all uphill, Ma. Maybe at a more convenient time, when you are all rested and refreshed at The Lord's side? I feel that it's near, even without you telling me. I don't ever want it to be near, but maybe you're looking forward to it. You've always kept things like these to yourself.

I will very much miss you when you finally decide to let go. The memories will come in a flood. I will surely be overwhelmed and be left gasping.

You are God's wonderful gift to me, and to all those to whom you give your love. I'm so blessed that you are my mother. You are far from perfect, but I love you just the same. You love me through all my faults and shortcomings, and all the pain I have caused. Who am I to give you less?

You were my very first teacher. You set me off on the path to learning as I took slow, unsure steps. There were times when school was intimidating, and how I longed to be home with you, safe and sound.

You filled our home with the wondrous aroma of your meals. Many of your dishes were your very own. I've never tasted them anywhere else, or had them cooked by anyone else, not even by my own wife. There are rare moments in my life, when I smell similar aromas, and I then remember the wonderful meals we shared together as a family. I remember you, and how you worked in your kitchen. You asked for help sometimes.

I know you need help now, with your pain and labored breathing, but I'm so far from you, Ma. I can only be with you in my prayers, thoughts, and dreams. I can't be there to hug you and kiss you, and wipe the sweat from your brow, as you gasp and cling on to dear life. I hope that I can dream of you each night from hereon, and see your comely face and hear your reassuring voice. I'm physically well, but my emotions are wreaking havoc on me. I feel so like the times when I was thin and sickly, and prone to bouts of fever. Fever made me delirious. I had nightmares. I pulled through each time, thanks to your attention and care. Now you need attention and care, and I can't be there to give them to you. My only hope now is God, and I'm praying to Him that with each labored gasp for air, you will feel His reassuring presence. I may not be with you right now, but God is.

Thank you for always taking me to the movies when I was still a young boy. Those films fired my imagination. I discovered worlds beyond my own world. I may not be much of a movie buff like you've always been, but my curiosity remains deep-seated.

Thank you for the wonderful summers and Christmases of my childhood and youth. Their pleasant memories will be with me until the day we see each other again.

I regret not having hugged you and kissed you as often as I could. The last time was over five years ago. I regret that when I was there for some time, attempting to build a dream for myself and my family, I declined your invitation that we watch a movie together, telling you that I was busy with work and that I had no time. Now that I want to give you all the time that I have available, I cannot, because we are apart. I regret that I have not e-mailed you as often as you would have wanted me to. My life is pretty much uneventful and so I have nothing significant to write you about. But now, I realize you would have tremendously appreciated a weekly (more so a daily) Hi or Hello. I'm writing you this long e-mail now and I'm not even sure you will still be able to read it.

I'm still hoping for the best, Ma, hoping that you will get well. But if not, and you want to move on to the place that we all dream of reaching, then we have no choice but to let you go. We don't want to keep you where you're not happy any longer, and where you are in difficulty and pain. We give you all the love we can give you, and you can either take it with you or give it away. But if I know you well, I'm sure you'll still give some of it away, and some of it back to us. You're a genuinely generous person, Ma.

Take good care, Ma. I don't know when I'll see you again, but I'm sure we'll see each other again.

With much love,

Pompit

How Was Your Day?

It's a question oft asked me by my son when I get home late at night. The question diminishes the day's fatigue and frustrations. It marks my own special place this part of the world. I know I'm home.

I was fortunate to have been raised in a home full of life and love. We were quite a big family of six children. We were not impoverished, but we didn't have a lot either. Just the right balance between wanting and having. It's the balance life should have. Too much of either one leads to misery.

One of life's saddest sights for me is homeless people sleeping wherever and whenever they can. I live in a predominantly working class neighborhood, with a smattering of new affluence here and there. Often on my way home late nights, on foot, I pass by children, old men and women, and sometimes entire families, camped out on a sheltered part of a sidewalk, or in front of shuttered shops, with flattened cardboard boxes as their makeshift beds.

I'm tired at the end of my workday. I grumble sometimes. My life lacks a lot of conveniences. And there is the matter of my decrepit dreams, which I've begun abandoning, not out of a lack of determination and commitment, but because life continues to be unfair, keeping many things out of my reach and control.

A meal awaits me at home after a long day. A sagging mattress is ready to receive my fatigued body, and a lumpy pillow, willing to cradle my head. I'm wealthy by the standards of those who sleep on cardboard boxes.

I still weave dreams in my home, but they're more like daydreams now, without conviction and resolve, as if just to while my remaining time. I've grown tired of the fiery, almost rabid dreams of my past. Successive failures and the ensuing hopelessness have doused the fire. I now live between my dreams' demise and a clouded future. I prop myself up with bits of pleasantness I manage to scrounge from here and there. And with some random, leftover hope, I try to muster courage to craft better tomorrows for those whom I love.

And so I respond to my son's question, "My day was okay, my son. It was fine."

Moments Magical

I am lucky tonight. By chance, I tuned in to a radio station playing lovely, poignant piano music.

Whenever I hear lovely music, I'm in a world all my own. I become oblivious to situations around me. Sometimes, I am taken back to times tucked away in my mind, to happier days, more courageous dreams, lost loves, and days of grandeur. At other times, I imagine myself as some person with magnificence and power, very admirable, and doing only good. Such is the sway beautiful music can have on me.

Another magical moment for me is during the rare occasions when I can take a nap in the afternoon. When a week's worth of fatigue overwhelms me, I seek the solace of a quiet corner and sleep on the floor. At that point between wakefulness and slumber, random scenes, emotions, and aromas of lost years play out before me. The sensations are so intense that they jolt me to consciousness, after which I regret that they can only be so fleeting.

Of course there is a rational explanation for almost everything. A rational explanation is one of the ways by which we battle the unknown, which we instinctively fear. There could be rationalizations for my magical moments, one of them being my foolish sentimentality which I find so difficult to put in the sidelines. Another could be that I may have been destined to have a short life, or to be afflicted with dementia, and so I may be unconsciously making the most of my limited time with all manner and kinds of recollections.

Rationalization will take the magic out of my moments, and so I'm not interested in them. I want to have my magical moments as long as I can.