My daughter hugged me with all her might

Two days ago, I was dealing with a problem with my father and mother so I was constantly on the phone with my siblings trying to figure out our next steps. I was visibly troubled and my wife and daughter noticed.

Out of the blue one night, my daughter (5 yr old) came to me and with a worried look said "Papa, let me hug you." And she just hugged me real tight. She was literally squeezing me and trembling as she used all her strength as if doing so will drive the problem away. 

"Everything will be alright, papa." That was the first time she ever comforted me and the first time she hugged me like that. It's a memory I will cherish forever. Later I found out my wife told her to hug me.

Hug someone tight today. It works.

The Saddest Jollibee Meal in the World

We arrived in Ormoc, Leyte at 1pm and were immediately ferried to the hospital. There he waited. My dear grandfather, 94 years of age, lying unconscious on the hospital bed, only kept alive by an oxygen tank. His upper body swerved with every labored breath. The large nerves on his neck shifted with every desperate pump of blood from his weak heart. He was holding onto dear life one shallow breath after another as if only to wait for his grandchildren and relatives to arrive and bid him farewell. His eyes were open, but could no longer see. He certainly did not see my waving hand as we arrived in the room. We hoped at least he heard us when we told him how much we loved him and how it was okay to let go.

6:45pm. We were waiting for our food to arrive when his wife (my grandmother) noticed his breaths were getting fainter. She began to panic. She knew death was imminent. She frantically kept glancing at his body for a few moments then finally broke down in tears on my sister's shoulder. The people in the room began praying, and my grandmother managed to compose herself and joined in. A nurse came in and checked his heartbeat with a stethoscope and went out without uttering a word. We understood and continued praying. Another nurse came in to check on him. A few moments later, there was another knock on the door. "Jollibee delivery". Our dinner had arrived and we quickly paid the bill. We sat for a moment, defeated, and - as if to preserve any normalcy in that completely abnormal moment - we began eating what was possibly the saddest Jollibee meal in the world - right next to our dead grandfather. His eyes were still open but began to dry up and become opaque, his mouth agape. The nerves on his neck had finally stopped twitching. He lay completely still and motionless.

There were no formalities in death. There was no ceremonial 'closing of the eyes' like you see in movies, no climactic hug as life slipped away from his body, no music to accompany the somber atmosphere - at least not at the exact moment (Patti Page's "It's A Sin To Tell A Lie" was playing non-stop earlier). But in that quiet and strangely serene moment, there was his daughter, my mother, broken and tired, singing him sweet melodies as his life slowly left his empty husk that bore the scars that come with age; in a world physically cruel to people who overstay. He finally let go.

Ultimately we humans are miserable at death. But my grandfather lived a full life in 94 years. It was a blessed life he shared with his family, his wife, daughters and their families, and he continues to live on through them. He lives on through me and all fond memories of him will remain.

I Am Jealousy

I am jealousy. People usually avoid me, but you'd be surprised how much I get summoned to do my work.

Take Sammy for instance. She's particularly jealous of this other girl, Dolly. Sammy just found out that Dolly plays a mean flute. Sure, Sammy can play the flute, but you should see Dolly, man. She's a monster.

Now look at Sammy - cleaning the dust bunnies off her prized flute. She stored it in her top cabinet for god-knows-how-long. You'd think she would place it somewhere accessible - like her desk or something. Huh. Now she's playing her go-to song, the one she can complete from start to finish. She's only played it for the millionth time. Look at the hunger in those eyes. Haha. I love it. In a week's time, she will probably learn a couple more songs. Believe me - I've seen it happen too many times. You're welcome, Sammy.

I deal with people like Sammy everyday. They shun and deny me whenever I get talked about in social gatherings, and it hurts my feelings. Nevertheless, I need not do much really. For I know all these fallible minds will eagerly and irritably wave a bittersweet invitation for me later, tomorrow, if not someday. I can wait and I serve all.

//

Listening to
"Anarchy OK" - Cog

The First Time Assassin

The traffic is terrible. Sweat trickles down his forehead as the morning sun defiantly continues to beat down on his face - yet inside him: an anxiety so incapacitating, and a rage boiling relentlessly. It seems there's no end to this long morning unless he just goes through with it.

This is it. If I wait any longer, this opportunity will pass.

Trembling, Hans nervously pulls the window down, aims his pistol at the windshield of the black SUV behind him, and pulls the trigger. A wave of gunshots erupts. Shards of glass fly through the air as each successive bullet punches holes through the windshield. It takes a couple more before it shatters. Satisfied but a bit unsure, he stops and waits. The calm that follows is deafening. The surrounding cars lay still for a moment, unable to react, before inching away from the SUV, slowly, one by one.

Hans reluctantly disembarks from his maroon car, pistol still in hand. He cautiously goes over to the SUV to check his handiwork. His target, a man in his forties, is terrified at the sight of him approaching, and to Hans' surprise, the man remains unscathed save for a few scratches. Confused and visibly shaken, Hans finds a bloodied woman in the driver's seat next to the man, lying motionless.

Carla???

Cat Dies Alone on New Year's Eve

The Dead Cat (encircled)

This has been quite an eventful new year's eve. There I was - December 31, 2015 at around 11:45 PM enjoying myself as fireworks begin to light up the night skies, slowly intensifying as the last minutes of 2015 dwindle down to zero. I did my share of producing irresponsible amounts of noise accompanied by clouds of dense suffocating smoke with my 4 sets of lebentador (only donated, by the way). At a distance, I see a neighbor light up the skies with a 10-minute display of fancy fireworks - the likes could rival the ones they have in SM or Ayala - which probably cost him/her around half a million pesos (ugh, some people got money to burn). It's deeply humiliating to be standing in awe of the fancy display of lights while holding cheap, unsafe, and ultimately earth-bound firecrackers. I initially had second thoughts about whether or not I should bother lighting them, but I did and its puniness amused me.

But this post is not about cheap-vs-expensive firecrackers or the new year's eve revelry. This is about a cat. A dead one. Right about the time I lit the last set of firecrackers, I noticed something by the gutter right outside the house. There he was (or a she? I wasn't sure) lying lifeless by the drainage. At first I thought it was a simple case of roadkill - someone had run the poor thing over and left it for dead. But I did not see blood nor guts splattered anywhere. Then I thought this must be some elaborate prank by drunk neighbors visiting houses and throwing carcasses of dead animals by their gates for a laugh. It's the new year after all, and some people think normal rules of etiquette don't apply during these few hours of mayhem. But nope, not the case either.

I tried poking the thing with my slipper - no movement. Tried again, just to be sure (I had no plans of starting the year with rabies). Still no movement. I poked its tail with my fingers... and again... now twiddling it. Still no movement. I tried looking at its face. Its eyes were wide open with a bit of glimmer in them, and the carcass looked fresh - no odor, no ants nor anything feasting upon it. I was now sure this poor thing died only moments earlier, and I had to move it before it starts emanating an ungodly stink. I wasn't excited to get my hands on a fairly large dead and decomposing mammal right before the obligatory new year's eve meal, but I had no choice. I squeamishly grabbed and lifted the thing by its tail (by the way, it was surprisingly heavy; and its limbs were already stiff), hauled it across the road to a nearby cliff and threw it down below. Minutes later, I washed my hands and ate hotdog on a bun - with tomato ketchup.

It's now around 20 hours since our paths crossed (me and the dead cat, that is) and I still can't stop thinking about what caused its death. My best guess is it was probably poisoned from rummaging through our neighbor's trash - which was several yards away from the crime scene. Or maybe it was bitten by a poisonous snake (which is even worse). The CCTV footage was no help - it only showed the cat's last moments before death. The cat definitely came from the neighbor's heap of trash- it hastily ran from it and right to our front gate (9:31 PM). It then began its dance of death - squirming, crawling. Very spastic at first but gradually slowing down to a halt. It took 12 minutes before it finally succumbed.

The video footage can be seen below:

To the cat: 

I am deeply sorry you had to perish so close to the new year (December 31, 2015 at 9:43 PM) and I can't help but notice you were alone when you did. I hope you are running freely in cat heaven by now, rummaging through heavenly trash with your friends without any danger of being bitten by those darned poisonous snakes. I'm sorry that you had to endure ten minutes of agony. Honestly, if I found you spazzing out, I would've been too much of a chicken to do anything anyway. But I hope you find comfort that in an ideal world - where I'm unafraid of untamed rabid animals - I would've euthanized you by uh... I don't know. Strangling you? (There weren't any shovels nearby.)

I know it's useless to cry over spilled milk. Perhaps you just had to go out the way you did. I hope I wasn't too brash and insensitive by just throwing your carcass down the cliff like that (I was panicking). I hope your fall was softened by the thick bushes below. And finally, I hope your decomposing body provided much needed sustenance to the various insects and critters that inhabit the vicinity close to your grave - thereby completing the circle of life.

Rest in peace, cat.

Your frightened friend,
Dave

If The Dead Could Talk

A dead and live person talk at a funeral:

Dead Person: Hi.

Living Person: Hello.

DP: Why the long face?

LP: You're dead!

DP: I'm so sorry about the whole "dying" thing. I just couldn't help it. Well... my body couldn't. But I'm fine. I feel wonderful actually.

LP: You're not fine. You're dead. You're in a stupid-looking casket and your skin is starting to decay from where I stand.

DP: Oh, you mean my carcass? Pay no mind to it. We all decompose into dirt at some point. It's all bound to happen. By the way, I didn't mean to just collapse in front of you that day - you know what I'm talking about - do you remember that day?

LP: What do you mean do I remember? Of course I do! Seeing your lifeless body slumped on the floor is not something that's easy to forget!

DP: I'm really really sorry. I really couldn't help it. I hope that wasn't too traumatizing for you. I'm particularly concerned about mother. She looked pretty upset. How's she doing anyway?

LP: None of us are fine. We're at your funeral. She's right over there in tears. Why don't you ask her yourself? She could use your company right now.

DP: I'll chat with her later. Right now I want to talk to you.

LP: Uh, okay. So... what are you going to do now?

DP: I honestly don't know. I'm still trying to get the hang of this being "dead" thing. For instance, did you know I could fly now? Also, it's been a week since I last ate, slept, and defecated. It's extremely liberating.

LP: I'm sorry - did you say you could fly?

DP: Yeah! Ain't it great? The very moment I collapsed, I felt my entire existence instantly pierce the sky. It was like being reborn with invisible wings.

LP: That... sounds awesome I guess.

DP: Are you kidding me? Remember when you were a kid pretending to be a bird or a plane? Remember all the Superman movies? Or being on the back of a motorbike with your arms outstretched trying to take flight*? Those are nothing compared to what's in store for you and everyone else in this room. It's seriously amazing. The only downside is you have to die. Make sure to write that down in your little notebook. "Death Equals Flight".

LP: Hmm... that's interesting. Okay, I'll take your word for it.
(Writes down "DEATH = FLIGHT" on a piece of paper.) 

DP: That might have been a bit too early and too much information for you. I wouldn't want you getting excited about dying all of a sudden. You know - cos you're still alive and you still need to take care of my teary-eyed mother over there.

LP: I do not plan on dying soon. And I'm not exactly sure if I believe you. I'm not even sure if I'm hallucinating right now. But I'm glad that you're fine - and enjoying yourself, apparently.

DP: Pfft... I'm great. Don't worry about me... Hey. My coffin's starting to descend down that big hole in the ground.

LP: Yeah, look at everyone wail.

DP: Why's Hindi Kita Malilimutan playing in the background? I did not 'okay' this.

LP: It was between that or Celine Dion's My Heart Will Go On.

DP: Ugh. Make it stop. Put on Chop Suey.

- - - - -

* DCFC

The Procrastinating Couch Potato

He awoke drenched. It was a hot afternoon and the couch was damp with his own sweat. The electric fan was useless. Still groggy and half-naked, he began to recount his bearings- what day was it anyway? He made a quick glance at the calendar on the wall and learned it was a Tuesday. Just another Tuesday.

He had taken a nap on the same couch yesterday, and the day before that, and on Saturday too. Fact is, he had been napping for as long as he could remember; and the couch was beginning to smell funky. As with most couch potatoes, he was oblivious to the scent.

He turned on the TV and quickly leafed through the channels looking for something worthwhile to watch. He stopped at the Fashion Channel, like he did yesterday, and the day before that. He watched as one slender model after another pranced on the walkway, his eyes fixated on their breasts jiggling with each gallop. This semi-erotic ritual of his wasn't limited to the afternoons. He watched these exact same models gallop well beyond midnight.

God, these ladies are gorgeous. He thought.

Swallowing his saliva, he turned off the TV and slowly went back to a supine position on the couch. He cuddled to one of the couch pillows and made mental notes of the stuff he was supposed to do today:

Pay bills.
Run errands.
Do groceries.
Spend the rest of afternoon at the driving range.

He had always thought himself classy, and, in his mind, being a golfer drove that point home. Everyone else was playing basketball, soccer, tennis. Not him. He played golf. If he had to fill out a form that asked for his sports or hobbies, he was proud to write "GOLF" in there every time. He felt elite doing so, the same way horse back-riders felt when writing "equestrianism" on the same form. He was convinced he was part of the social elite - the rich - since golf is not a typical sport enjoyed by common peons. Furthermore, being associated with the latter is essentially social suicide.

He wondered if any other "elite" people had been at the driving range today.

If only Benjamin did a bit of golfing we'd be the classiest father-son duo at the driving range.
(Benjamin hated golfing.)

His mind continued to wander off onto something else. He began thinking about how much money he had spent on those damn near-worthless lampshades. For a second he considered adding "return lampshades and make cashier wish he/she wasn't a cashier" to his itinerary- on a whim- but ultimately decided against it. He then thought of other stuff: one had to do with getting rid of rats in the house, another with getting a haircut. He continued to think all that he could within his capabilities as a sweat-soaked half-naked man in boxers in a hot afternoon. Then his eyes started to cave in.

And so he spent the rest of his afternoon sleeping on the couch; same as yesterday, and the day before, and Saturday too.

Bacon & Eggs and Cold Conversations

The seat sent shivers through him. It was morning, and he had just taken a nice warm bath. Benjamin was dried up and seated before the dinner table now- a dinner table with breakfast on it- still trying to swallow the drowsiness from the night and waking his sleeping appetite. The breakfast was the bacon and eggs cliché. It smelled nice. At least it did.

He kept his distance from his father. They both lived together for as long as he can remember but they seldom talked. His father was across the table with a couple of pills strewn beside a glass of milk. Father started scooping rice and made a delicious mess of eggs and bacon on his plate. Swallowed one pill and started talking.

“Doesn’t Joseph want to work in the same industry as you?”
A light shrug. Joseph was a friend, but more a drinking buddy than a friend actually. He worked in some bank.
“I mean, industries like yours should interest him. It’s managerial.”
Managerial. That word somehow sent a small puke in Benjamin's mouth.

A brief silence followed by the clinging of silverware.

He felt his father had always wanted to talk to him, but he always remained quiet, replying with no more than half-hearted shrugs and nods. It all comes naturally to him. At times he felt sorry for his father and wanted to at least make an effort to answer his questions properly. "How hard can it be?", he thought. But there’s nothing more awkward than taking five minutes to come up with a reply. In his mind being awkward was worse than being cold. It was the norm in the household after all.

After drinking his milk and taking his share of vitamins, he stood up. Wandered about the room and looked at the morning paper for awhile. He had not changed into his work clothes yet. His father was finishing his last slab of bacon when Benjamin started up the stairs.

“Do we have a small screwdriver?”, Benjamin was finally saying.
“What about the one you had in one of your drawers?”
“I couldn’t find them. I need to fix the mouse. It’s got dirt inside and it’s a pain to use.”
"I'll check..."

His father immediately stood and started to walk at moderate speed, likely headed towards his room to look for some tools he probably stored there. Benjamin could tell his excitement.

“Not now. I think I’ll fix it later. Maybe tonight.”
His father stopped, looked confused for a moment.
“Oh, okay”, his father said and headed back to the table.

Benjamin was all dressed up when he came downstairs. He had a white polo shirt, dark pants, and squeaky black shoes.
“I’ll be on my way now.”
“Okay.”
His father was still at the dinner table, chewing some left-over peanuts from the fridge.

The road was strange today. It had fewer cars than usual, especially during the morning rush hour. He was playing some Zero 7 and turned the volume to a good 30, drowning the sounds from oncoming traffic and the outside world. He stopped listening to radio a long time ago. Felt he had to be very selfish with his music. It was his brush and paint. It was his landscape.

He awoke when he felt something warm flowing from his neck. The impact had dislodged his jaw from its sockets and it had uncovered a fountain of blood. It was hanging now. He had not seen so much blood before. His neatly ironed white polo shirt was in shreds, dyed dark red from the newly opened faucet. A crowd was forming around the misshapen vehicle with a figure inside. A bloody disfigured creature. Benjamin could make out random buzzes of electricity. The throbbing of the warm flow of liquid. The sound of worried gasps and murmurs. All fading in unison.

He lay motionless. He felt no more.

Father was still at the dinner table, now with a set of screwdrivers before him.  He wondered what he should be fixing today.