First beach trip! :)
Maybe next year.
The magic of short films. Spike Jonze’s ‘I’m Here’.
Saturday with the family at Antonio’s #photoblog
Biglaang 7107 IMFestival with friends :)
Happy Valentine’s Day! :)
Isang taon ka ng wala.
I’ve wanted to write about you for a very long time. But every time I try, my words catch up on my throat and they never quite make it out of my hands. My drafts pile up into this blinking cursor, waiting for me to say something more, and I, in the longest midsentence, blink back.
It’s nothing like anything.
About this time last year was the calm before the storm. I remember prepping for our first ever garage sale - I remember feeling productive and excited and just feeling ready to throw the old things out, for new things to come our way.
The start of a new year has always been so promising. 2013. Nothing is bad, yet.
I need a post without verbs. You are not a were. It’s not a was. ‘You loved us’ doesn’t sound right.
Same time last year was our first chemo. A sunny holy Thursday, the roads were clear, a lot of quiet, it didn’t take long to get a room. The hospital wing was empty and eerie but the sun was sunny, trying to cheer us up, trying to cheer you on. The 5% prognosis, that’s you.
We go through the day in a state of numb, people say they’re sorry for your loss and you never really know what to say back and so you nod and say thanks. Truth is, you didn’t want to say anything back. You feel sorry too.
But it’s the morning that’s the hardest. The first seconds of being awake when your momentary emptiness gets filled up with the consciousness that hurts you. Everyday, every nameless day gets you.
We’d like to believe it gets better with time. We all heard the sayings, time heals all wounds, that people mindlessly throw around. There must be some truth to the clichés. Or none. I have yet to find out.
A friend told me that it’s not so much the forgetting but more of the getting used to. You become better at seeing an empty chair, seeing a happy family picture, hearing a favorite song on a Sunday morning that smells like coffee and cigarette. The punchline stales over time. And it’s never because you’ve forgotten.
Maybe the grief never really truly runs out. It goes away for a while but it always comes back and finds you - often in an inconvenient time and place. And if you’re lucky, in the company of acquaintances who didn’t know the difference between you yawning and you tearing up. They didn’t know you 6 months ago.
You fought and you fought well, so well in fact the doctors kept telling us you weren’t suppose to last that long but you did. And it’s almost a miracle that you only truly felt the harshness of the battle towards the end. I whispered something to you when you were in the ICU. I think I said we were all there with you, Pa and so please just stay with us. You raised your hand in response.
I wish we let ourselves say goodbye.
One year and you’re still gone.
And I, here, settling for words that can’t quite say enough.
Project #OnASunday, for my father who loved Sundays.
Updated my website! Not quite there yet, but my CV is a start :)