Frank Hilario's "The Boy who Broke his own Heart"

The author of this story is a friend of mine.  I "met" him when I asked for a copy of "A Damaged Culture" and the rest is history.  He writes for the American Chronicle and his profile there reads

Based in Manila, for a Filipino, has mastery of the English language that's unprecedented. Freelance, a one-man band as writer, editor, desktop publisher, blogger, copywriter. At 71, writes faster, fuller, and funnier than at 61, or 51, or 41. A super writer, Dr Antonio C Oposa calls him. He's unbelievable; he's real.

To me, he's a very interesting person who can sometimes infuriate and sometimes elucidate, but always with an eloquence that is lost to people from our generation.  The image link below goes to a picture he referred to in this piece. Perhaps, after reading this, you can check it out.  This is a narrative about himself, which he briefly summarizes within the text.  It is a journal entry.  It is his confession in his own words.  If you enjoy this story--as I hope you will--you might want to visit his blog. 

- paris

'There Is No Greater Agony' by Mazelle (flickr.com/)

Copyright March 2007.

Published in ‘My Reuter Almanac’ (myreuteralmanac.wordpress.com/). May be reproduced without permission as long as credit is given.

18 March 2007 – The pastoral text / cellphone SMS of Fr Reuter is this: In agony, our Lord looked up at the silent sky and said: ‘My God, my God, why has thou forsaken me?’ When you feel abandoned, remember Our Lord was lonely, too.

Ayesah Abubakar's "A Malaysian Hariraya"

Technically, this is an essay. I know that. It's from the book Children of the Ever-Changing Moon: Essays by Young Moro Writers edited by Gutierrez Mangansakan II. But, sometimes, things are best pictured, not through fiction but by the retelling of an actual experience.

The book describes the writer, Ayesah Abubakar in the following manner:

[The writer] was born in Davao City. She is proud of her Chinese and Spanish roots from the small town of Cateel, Davao Oriental, and her Maguindanao heritage from Kidapawan, Cotabato... [She] is not based in Penang Island in Malaysia, where she lives with her husband...[She] continues to pursue her aspirations for freedom and peace for the Bansamoro and the peopls of Mindanao through her work as a peace scholar and practicioner.

In his introduction, the editor of the book says this about his work:

"This anthology presents new voices that offer a glimpse into the life of a people whose opinion, history, and circumstance have somehow been stifled, giving them an important and distinct place in our national imagination."

The feelings may not be apparent while you read the essay, as it seems almost like a report. But, the amount of detail, which is reminiscent of how an excited child would tell a story, speaks of an underlying pride and joy which stems from how much one loves his or her cultural heritage. At the same time, there appears to be a feeling of wonder from the writer, a kind of awe at the Hariraya, she had always wanted. Personally, I see this as a story of the natural esteem we have for the beliefs that molded us and the innate yearning in all of us to be accepted simply for who we are.

-

This is the third Ramadan that I am spending in Malaysia. On the first occasion, I was lucky enough to be joined by another Moro girl who was doing her internship in the university where I work. Our Eid'l Fitr, the culminating celebration day of the end of the fasting month of Ramadan, was a little melancholic since we were missing home, stuck in our apartment with no families and friends to celebrate with. During last year's Eid, however, I was more than glad to have gone home to Manila, supposedly on time for the big masjid prayers; but it turned out that my family and the entire Muslim community in the Philippines convened for the congregational prayer just the day before I arrived.

The celebration of Hariraya, a local term for Eid'l Fitr, is done with little fanfare in Manila as compared here in Malaysia. Still, Muslim families in the Philippines take great importance in attending the Eid prayers at the local masjid. We would go home after prayers and enjoy a "special little meal than normal" that my mother prepared for that day. We would get together with other families and visit relatives and do house-hopping. It is unfortunate, though, that the rest of our family lives in Mindanao. We content ourselves with spending the occasion as really more of a family "quiet time" at home. Sometimes, I would celebrate it with a number of Muslim friends who are in the vicinity of Metro Manila.

My Ramadan and Eid'l Fitr is a very important occasion this year since I am doing my fasting together with my husband. We are a new couple. Mak and Aba, my parents-in-law, have joined us in welcoming the celebrations in our new home. My husband wanted this to be special for me. Early this month he decorated our apartment balcony with "Raya lights" similar to the Christmas light in the Philippines, as well as other ornaments to dress up our home.

My husband and I are always proud of the breathtaking view from our apartment building here in Penang Island. From our balconies and windows, one can see clearly the Penang Bridge and the mainland peninsular Malaysia. The small flickering light bulbs from our balconies add to the festive ambience in the evenings.

We indulge in the motions of "Raya shopping" that involve buying new furniture and other household items, and baju--traditional clothes of kebaya and baju-kurong, prayer clothes, and the modern clothes as well.

Apart from the material acquisitions, the Raya culture invokes the spirit of sharing among people. Muslims contribute zakat and sadaqa to their respective masjid where they would attend prayers. During Ramadan, it is usual for people to go to the masjid for their buka puasa that is often sponsored by the masjid out of the zakat and sadaqa contributions, and attend the tarawih prayers that could last for more than two hours each night. There are also those who would jointly organize sahur for the less privileged.

Beside the activities in the masjid, Muslims in Malaysia are also active in charity work. Among groups of friends, they can make contributions for a sickly person or help a Muslim minority from a neighboring Southeast Asian country who could be studying in one of the universities here. This year, I am grateful that a small group of lawyers helped me in raising money to buy Islamic children's books which I have sent to a masjid in my hometown Kidapawan. It's a small project, but it's really the Raya spirit of sharing all the way to Mindanao that is making it very special.

We are only two days from Raya day, Insha Allah. Still busy signing Raya cards, just like Christmas cards, to friends and families, shopping for the traditional kuih to be served during Eid, and making schedules when-to-invite-who and when-to-visit-who in the next month or so as the Hariraya spirit envelopes the whole of Malaysia.

Come Raya day, I will be doing the traditional ritual of asking for forgiveness from elders on my bended knees, in this case, my parents-in-law, and saying the words "Maaf zahir batin" meaning "Please forgive me for the things I have done wrong". On the other hand, my husband's younger cousins, nieces and nephews would have to be doing the same to me. And with it, I would have to give them a duit Raya or Raya money (similar to the Chinese ampaw tradition).

Having been brought up in a non-Muslim community like Manila, i am pleasantly enjoying the celebration of Ramadan in Malaysia. I remember what it was like as an envious child watching our neighbors celebrate Christmas with much festivity. This Malaysian Hariraya is making me like a child again. It must be the same joyful and excited feeling for boys and girls especially during Christmas in the Philippines. At the same time, however, I am starting to miss that "quiet time" with my family on this comine Eid.

Son of Wood, An Ifugao Tale

This story is primarily a story of a father's love for his son and a son for his father. But, even so, it also describes the love of a woman for her beloved, the faithfulness of a wife, and it is a reflection of idealized relationships in this culture.

This story was taken from the book Treasury of Stories - Filipino Myths and Folktales by E. Arsenio Manuel and edited by Gilda Cordero Fernando. The book was illustrated by Carlos Valino, Jr. In his foreword, Manuel describes this book as "a collection of thirty-three Philippine-Asian traditions that have come down from the remote past. It was written in the hope that a new generation...may discover the charm, the depth, and the variety of these ancestral narratives."

From the chapter introduction, the story, itself, is discussed by Manuel as follows:

"An adaptation of an Ifugao epic song and part of an epic cycle...Son of Wood is a prose rendition of a hudhud... It is outstanding and unique in the primitive literature of Northern Luzon....More touching, perhaps, is the human feeling and deep emotion evoked by the story in the same large way Pinocchio has affected humanity everywhere. Ifugao's wooden boy...was not known outside the area until it was publicized in 1975. Still, I am almost certain that [it] antedates by many hundreds of years the Italian Pinocchio, now a recognized children's classic... The artistic sensitivity in the tale must have taken years of singing to achieve. Only a highly gifted bard could have composed such a song. Nowhere is primitive fatherly love shown in such a memorable manner, for the old man to breathe half of his little remaining life in order to make his song of wood live. The son reciprocates with equal intensity and the conflicting emotions inside him can almost be felt."

Note that epic cycles are part of oral tradition, a series of epics that are sung together and retold as a series. As the stories are retold, they are "distilled" or purified, removing elements, adding details, and slowly creating a story that emphasizes what its culture holds important, true, and moral. This story can be related to Amador Daguio's Wedding Dance, as the two stories are from the same region and display the same cultural norms.

-

The old man, Amtalaw, whose fame was still on the lips of every villager, sat on his hagabi[1] bench, feeling very lonely. For weeks now, he had looked stolidly at the skulls decorating the beams of his house, mementos of the old days when fighting was the law of the mountains [2]. He looked in the distance at the rice terraces and at the shoulders of ridges where other villages perched. Beyond the mountains, Amtalaw could glimpse communities that he had raided in his youth and villages where he had courted girls in their ulog[3] dormitories. Every spot for kilometers around was familiar to the old man--every waterfall, rivulet and pond, thicket and mountain path.

Without a word, Amtalaw sat, brooding. He had lost his two sons in battle and now there was no one to inherit the rice paddies, the house of hard wood, and his past glories. His wife, Gumigid, ever faithful and industrious, was too old to give him another child. The granary was full, the chickens were multiplying, the ducks filled every water hold and their eggs were scattered all over the yard. But there was no son to talk to, no one to listen to his stories of heroism and to pass on all that wealth.

Sensing Awiyao's sadness, and having listened to all his tales of girls in dormitories in other villages, his wife, Gumigid said, "Maybe you have an offspring with someone in some village that you do not remember."

"Maybe," was all Amtalaw could say.

Sometimes, Amtalaw would recont to his wife his lineage. "I am probably in the line of descent of the great god Kabunyian. One of our ancestors somewhere down the line, I am sure, must have found himself in a similar predicament. And it is not unlikely that he could have created for himself a successor out of wood. Or clay. And was able to breathe life into it."

The next morning, after a breakfast of glutinous rice and duck, Amtalaw decided to go up to the mountains. He did not heed his wife's precautions to take his spear and shield. He merely belted on his bolo, put betelnut-chew in his hip bag, several chisels, a hammer, and a small knife.

Once up in the mountain, he walked around the thicket, scrutinizing the big trees. Amtalaw spotted a very tall tree. He climbed up its thick trunk and, after cutting many small branches, he worked his way up to the top. At that dizzying height, he began to carve the end of the highest branch into the figure of the little boy he so desired.

He worked intently, without stopping. After several hours, the face and limbs emerged, and soon enough its other features. He continued carving. Soon, the headdress and the little loincloth emerged. It was a proper Ifugao boy! Amtalaw looked lovingly at his handiwork. Then, he lopped the figure swiftly off the branch. With the wooden boy tucked under his arm, Amtalaw slid down the tree.

When Amtalaw touched earth, he placed the wooden figure in front of him. He looked up at the sky and prayed to the gods. Then, he inhaled deeply. He put his mouth to the nostrils of the little wooden boy. And, as he prayed, he breathed half his remaining life into the figure.

Reeling from the effort, Amtalaw fell back. Soon, the wooden form on the grass began to show signs of life. First, the two eyebrows twitched. Then, the eyelids began to quiver and the two eyes flew open. The wooden boy's shoulders moved, he bent his elbow, he flexed his fingers. Then, the wooden boy sprang up on his own two feet. Soon the new son was frisking about on the grass and on the rocks and all around Amtalaw. The old man wept with joy.

The son of wood was an active boy. "Let us go down to the village," said Amtalaw, carrying the little boy. After only a short distance, the old man felt the boy getting heavier and heavier.

"Let me walk," said the child.

Holding on to his father's hand, the little boy walked. His pudgy legs could hardly reach the stepping stones. As they walked on, however, Amtalaw was amazed to notice that the boy's strides were getting longer and longer. Soon, the wooden boy's steps were matching Amtalaw's own. The boy was growing up before his eyes! Going up and down the rice terraces, father and son cut through one village after another, so much in a hurry was Amtalaw to reach his home.

"I told you, you must have a son somewhere," said his wife Gumigid over supper of boiled chicken. "What shall we call him?"

"Aliguyon," replied the beaming father.

The following day, Amtalaw was up early, eager to teach his son Aliguyon the mountain boys' favorite sport--spinning a top. He showed the wooden boy how to carve his own top, which would shine and spin the longest. He also taught how Aliguyon could twist twine into string for the top.

The following day, father and son were wrestling, the old man showing the young one the art of balance and proper use of strength. At the end of the day the father said, "Aliguyon, I know that you are now stronger than I, why didn't you throw me to the ground?"

"No one would do that to a father one loves," said Aliguyon.

Everyday, Amtalaw passed on a new experience to the son of wood. The old man taught him the sport of arm bending, the thigh slapping[4] game, spear throwing, and many others. Aliguyon mastered all of them.

In less than a year, Aliguyon had also become interested in visiting the other villages. His mother made him a fitting loincloth, a smart headpiece, and a hipbag[5]. Aliguyon was now fully a young man and Amtalaw proudly watched him disappear into the distance.

In the neighboring villages, Aliguyon engaged the young men in the traditional games of skill. No one could beat him. The young women cast longing glances at him, coveting Aliguyon for a mate and offering him betel-chew[6]. In the evening, he would go to an ulog dormitory and charm the girls into letting him in for the night.

It came to pass that Aliguyon fell in love with a young girl named Bugan[7]. Aliguyon took her necklace from her basket and put it in hid hipbag. Bugan did ot object. It meant that she was accepting his proposal. Aliguyon told the girl Bugan that they would soon have a wedding. During the day, Aliguyon helped Bugan's family in the rice terraces and the family looked upon Aliguyon as a good acquisition.

One day, while working in the field, Aliguyon felt himself gasping for breath. Quickly, he explained to his betrothed that he had to go home at once. Besides, he would have to inform his parents that he was going to marry. "I will be back soon," he said.

On the way home, he felt weaker and weaker, and Aliguyon knew the reason. The half-of-his-life that Amtalaw had bequeathed him was coming to an end. Near a stream, Aliguyon rested wearily on the stone. He washed his feet in the running water and an eel surfaced. The eel asked Aliguyon what was wrong, and the young man told the eel how his half-a-life was almost gone, that he was dying. "Why don't you just ask Amtalaw for the remainder of his life? Surely he would not mind sacrificing it for you," said the eel.

The young man would not hear of it. He loved his father, who had given him everything, even the life in his body. It would be cruel to ask the old man for anything more.

Aliguyon continued walking. After awhile, he had to sit again on a log to regain his strength. A frog leaped in front of him and advised the young man, "Amtalaw has led a full life. He should give you what is left of it. Besides, he needs a successor."

Aliguyon shook his head. His pulse was growing fainted and fainter, but Aliguyon continued on his journey. He walked with a heavy heart, for now he knew that he would turn into wood once more. What would happen to poor Bugan?

Back home, Amtalaw and his wife Gumigid never wondered at the wooden son's length absence. They thought he was still trying the ulog of the different villages just like his father used to do in his younger days.

Weakly, Aliguyon made his way to the place where he often sat with Bugan and loitered there for a while. Gasping painfully, he climbed the selfsame mountain where his father had carved him from a tree. He found the top of the tree lopped off. Aliguyon removed his belt and bolo and let them drop to the ground. With supreme effort, he climbed the great tree from whence he had come. With his last gasp, he rejoined the cut branch and became a part of the tree once more.

When many days passed and Aliguyon had not returned to her, his sweetheart Bugan became worried. She asked permission from her parents to look for him. She walked the path that Aliguyon had taken and rested on the very stone and the very log that Aliguyon had sat on. The eel and the frog told Bugan not to waste time, to hurry on, for something tragic could have overtaken her sweetheart. And they gave her directions to the mountains.

Bugan reached the mountain. It was a steep climb. She struggled up the slope and soon found herself in the woods. She saw many colorful birds flitting about in the forest. Below the giant tree, Bugan found Aliguyon's belt and bolo. Her heart was pounding. "He must have climbed the tree," thought Bugan. The tree was so high that just looking at it made her feel dizzy. She knew she would never be able to climb it.

Bugan called on all the colorful birds in the forest for help. They alighted at her feet. Bugan begged them for feathers to cover herself. The birds wanted to know why she wanted to cover her beauty and plucked off their colorful feathers for the girl, and Bugan was transformed into the most beautiful bird of all[8].

Immediately, Bugan flew to the top of the tallest tree where Aliguyon was. She immediately recognized Aliguyon, although he had become a part of the tree, because his hipbag bulged. Her necklace in the bag had not yet completely turned to wood. The bird Bugan alighted on top of the tree, clinging firmly to what would have been Aliguyon's head. And she never moved from her perch.

The villagers gathering firewood in the forest soon noticed the beautiful bird perched motionless on the top of the tree. Everyone wanted to own it. One after another, they climbed the tree in order to lure the bird. But it stayed fast. It could not be detached from its position.

For days, people gathered around the tree pointing out the bird. A rich man even made a canyao, sacrificing a chicken on the mountain. But when he climbed the tree, the beautiful bird could not be pried loose. Determined to own the bird, the rich man returned with a pig and offered it, again without success. Challenged, he continued sacrificing until he had but a few animals left. And still, the beautiful bird would not be coaxed to come down.

The beautiful colored bird on the tree was soon known far and wide. One day, even Amtalaw and his wife went up to the mountain to view the famous bird. The old man immediately saw that it was the same tree from which he had carved his son. The old man, who by now had become very worried about Aliguyon's disappearance, thought his son might be up on the tree top. But he knew that he was now too old to climb the tree.

When Amtalaw and his wife Gumigid reached home, the found a stranger waiting for them. It was a young man who resembled Aliguyon so much that people had to take a second look. The young man said that he was passing through the village. He was from Banawe. He had stopped by only on a chance that he would meet his father whom he had never seen. How often his mother had described Amtalaw to him and how exactly the old man fitted the description! The young man, who looked like Aliguyon, gave Amtalaw the name of his mother and Amtalaw recognized the boy as his son.

"What is your name?" asked the old man, and the young man's startling answer was:

"Aliguyon."

Gumigid, his wife, could hardly take her eyes off the new Aliguyon, so much like their own son of wood was he.

Amtalaw had a scheme. If the second Aliguyon's appearance could fool them, then surely, others too would take him for the first Aliguyon. And so, the following morning, they brought the young man to the mountains to view the colored bird. As usual, the people form many neighboring villages were milling below the tree, wondering about the beautiful bird that refused to be brought down. Amtalaw asked the second Aliguyon if he would like to climb the tree and try his luck.

The young man consented. With great ease, he climbed the tall tree, and soon he was on the highest branch. For the first time, the bird turned its head at the sight of the second Aliguyon. The young man stretched out a hand, and the bird, dazzled by what she mistook to be her sweetheart, willingly perched on his shoulder. The young man saw the wooden carving of a boy at the end of the branch, and thinking it to be such beautiful work, cut it off at the feet. The second Aliguyon, with the son of wood under his arm and the bird clinging tamely to his shoulder, slowly descended.

The watching crowd applauded. As soon as he reached the ground, the young man put the bird on his outstretched arm and begn to dance with it. The people made a space for him, beating in time with their clapping. The bird fully believed that he was her sweetheart and transformed into Bugan, the woman. Bugan looked at the young man intently. "You are not my sweetheart, Aliguyon," she told him, although she continued dancing.

"My name is Aliguyon," said the young man, "but I am not your sweetheart."

The people who were watching them dance were urging Bugan to take the new Aliguyon. "Would you rather have a sweetheart made of wood than one of flesh and blood?" they asked. But Bugan said it was the man of wood that she loved.

Amtalaw, by the time, had picked up the wooden figure that was his creation. Gathering all his strength, he exhaled his remaining life into the nostrils of his beloved son. Immediately, the first Aliguyon sprang up to life and tearfully embraced his father. The faithful Bugan recognized him immediately and joined them.

A wedding feast was held immediately. During the festivities, the old man was gasping heavily, he could hardly breathe. He thanked the second Aliguyon who had made the reunion possible. The young man was glad to have met his father at last. But he had to be on his way to the next village. He left with everybody's blessings.

Amtalaw died on the third day of the wedding feast of Aliguyon, the son of wood whom he loved so much.

-

Notes: Some of these notes were taken from the book, others are from my high school classes. Please send me an email or comment on the story if you find any errors in any of the stories.

[1] hagabi - The long Ifugao couch carved of a single tree trunk. Only rich families can possess a hagabi as it is costly to make.

[2] In those days, the Ifugao had rival tribes, and headhunting was common practice. The skulls of the enemies defeated were kept as trophies and often displayed as signs of valor and skill in battle.

[3] ulog - the girl's dormitory in Bontok and neighboring communities where marriageable and pre-pubescent girls sleep at night.

[4] thigh-slapping - a savage game to test the strength and endurance of the men. Common only amount the mountain peoples of Northern Luzon.

[5] hip bag - complimentary article to the Igorot cap. Indispensible for carrying small articles.

[6] betelnut/betel chew - a combination of the areca nut and betel leaves, it has anticeptic properties and may have served as a breath freshener of the time. It figures prominently in Malayan/Southeast Asian cultures. Offering to and chewing betel-chew with another person is a sign of acceptance and friendship.

[7] Bugan is a common name in the north. Many stories feature a woman named Bugan, because Bugan is often characterized as the embodiment of the ideal woman. Beneficial female dieties are called Bugan.

[8] Animals helping heroes and heroines are a common theme in Philippine folk stories. Birds, in particular, are often shown helping women in trouble or in need. It is not uncommon to find stories wherein birds lend their feathers to women or to find women who can transform themselves into birds.

Gilda Cordero-Fernando's "The Visitation of the Gods"

While this is not the conventional love story like the other stories here, I thought it was a good addition to this blog. Loving one's job is a love that is also noteworthy. One's dedication and passion for his or her chosen profession is as noble as love felt for other people. Ms. Noel's principles and decisions show her dedication not only to her job, but to her students, as well. This is sharply contrasted against the facade that her co-teachers are putting up and the jaded opinions of Mr. Sawit. It is a good story that is a true and unforgiving reflection of the culture in public schools and a must-read for those who are considering teaching as a profession.

Perhaps it's because the theme is close to my heart that I found this story moving. But, perhaps, Cordero-Fernando's writing is also to blame. Read about the author here.

-

The letter announcing the visitation (a yearly descent upon the school by the superintendent, the district supervisors and the division supervisors for "purposes of inspection and evaluation") had been delivered in the morning by a sleepy janitor to the principal. The party was, the attached circular revealed a hurried glance, now at Pagkabuhay, would be in Mapili by lunchtime, and barring typhoons, floods, volcanic eruptions and other acts of God, would be upon Pugad Lawin by afternoon.

Consequently, after the first period, all the morning classes were dismissed. The Home Economics building, where the fourteen visiting school officials were to be housed, became the hub of a general cleaning. Long-handled brooms ravished the homes of peaceful spiders from cross beams and transoms, the capiz of the windows were scrubbed to an eggshell whiteness, and the floors became mirrors after assiduous bouts with husk and candlewax. Open wood boxes of Coronas largas were scattered within convenient reach of the carved sofa, the Vienna chairs and the stag-horn hat rack. The sink, too, had been repaired and the spent bulbs replaced; a block of ice with patches of sawdust rested in the hollow of the small unpainted icebox. There was a brief discussion on whether the French soap poster behind the kitchen door was to go or stay: it depicted a trio of languorous nymphs in various stages of deshabille reclining upon a scroll bearing the legend Parfumerie et Savonerie but the woodworking instructor remembered that it had been put there to cover a rotting jagged hole - and the nymphs had stayed.

The base of the flagpole, too, had been cemented and the old gate given a whitewash. The bare grounds were, within the remarkable space of two hours, transformed into a riotous bougainvillea garden. Potted blooms were still coming in through the gate by wheelbarrow and bicycle. Buried deep in the secret earth, what supervisor could tell that such gorgeous specimens were potted, or that they had merely been borrowed from the neighboring houses for the visitation? Every school in the province had its special point of pride - a bed of giant squashes, an enclosure or white king pigeons, a washroom constructed by the PTA. Yearly, Pugad Lawin High School had made capital of its topography: rooted on the firm ledge of a hill, the schoolhouse was accessible by a series of stone steps carved on the hard face of the rocks; its west windows looked out on the misty grandeur of a mountain chain shaped like a sleeping woman. Marvelous, but the supervisors were expecting something tangible, and so this year there was the bougainvillea.

The teaching staff and the student body had been divided into four working groups. The first group, composed of Mrs. Divinagracia, the harassed Home Economics instructor, and some of the less attractive lady teachers, were banished to the kitchen to prepare the menu: it consisted of a 14-lb. suckling pig, macaroni soup, embutido, chicken salad, baked lapu-lapu, morcon, leche flan and ice cream, the total cost of which had already been deducted from the teachers' pay envelopes. Far be it to be said that Pugad Lawin was lacking in generosity, charm or good tango dancers! Visitation was, after all, 99% impression - and Mr. Olbes, the principal, had promised to remember the teachers' cooperation in that regard in the efficiency reports.

The teachers of Group Two had been assigned to procure the beddings and the dishes to be used for the supper. In true bureaucratic fashion they had relegated the assignment to their students, who in turn had denuded their neighbors' homes of cots, pillows, and sleeping mats. The only bed properly belonging to the Home Economics Building was a four-poster with a canopy and the superintendent was to be given the honor of slumbering upon it. Hence it was endowed with the grandest of the sleeping mats, two sizes large, but interwoven with a detailed map of the archipelago. Nestling against the headboard was a quartet of the principal's wife's heart-shaped pillows - two hard ones and two soft ones - Group Two being uncertain of the sleeping preferences of division heads.

"Structuring the Rooms" was the responsibility of the third group. It consisted in the construction (hurriedly) of graphs, charts, and other visual aids. There was a scurrying to complete unfinished lesson plans and correct neglected theme books; precipitate trips from bookstand to broom closet in a last desperate attempt to keep out of sight the dirty spelling booklets of a preceding generation, unfinished projects and assorted rags - the key later conveniently "lost" among the folds of Mrs. Olbes' (the principal's wife) balloon skirt.

All year round the classroom walls had been unperturbably blank. Now they were, like the grounds, miraculously abloom - with cartolina illustrations of Parsing, Amitosis Cell Division and the Evolution of the Filipina Dress - thanks to the Group Two leader, Mr. Buenaflor (Industrial Arts) who, forsaken, sat hunched over a rainfall graph. The distaff side of Group Two were either practicing tango steps or clustered around a vacationing teacher who had taken advantage of her paid maternity leave to make a mysterious trip to Hongkong and had now returned with a provocative array of goods for sale.

The rowdiest freshman boys composed the fourth and discriminated group. Under the stewardship of Miss Noel (English), they had, for the past two days been "Landscaping the Premises," as assignment which, true to its appellation, consisted in the removal of all unsightly objects from the landscape. That the dirty assignment had not fallen on the hefty Mr. de Dios (Physics) or the crafty Mr. Baz (National Language), both of whom were now hanging curtains, did not surprise Miss Noel. She had long been at odds with the principal, or rather, the principal's wife - ever since the plump Mrs. Olbes had come to school in a fashionable sack dress and caught on Miss Noel's mouth a half-effaced smile.

"We are such a fashionable group," Miss Noel had joked once at a faculty meeting. "If only our reading could also be in fashion!" -- which statement obtained for her the ire of the only two teachers left talking to her. That Miss Noel spent her vacations taking a summer course for teachers in Manila made matters even worse - for Mr. Olbes believed that the English teacher attended these courses for the sole purpose of showing them up. And Miss Noel's latest wrinkle, the Integration Method, gave Mr. Olbes a pain where he sat.

Miss Noel, on the other hand, thought utterly unbecoming and disgusting the manner in which the principal's wife praised a teacher's new purse of shawl. ("It's so pretty, where can I get one exactly like it?" - a heavy-handed and graceless hint) or the way she had of announcing, well in advance, birthdays and baptisms in her family (in other words, "Prepare!"). The lady teachers were, moreover, for lack of household help, "invited" to the principal's house to make a special salad, stuff a chicken or clean the silverware. But this certainly was much less than expected of the vocational staff - the Woodworking instructor who was detailed to do all the painting and repair work on the principal's house, the Poultry instructor whose stock of leghorns was depleted after every party of the Olbeses, and the Automotive instructor who was forever being detailed behind the wheel of the principal's jeep - and Miss Noel had come to take it in stride as one of the hazards of the profession.

But today, accidentally meeting in the lavatory, a distressed Mrs. Olbes had appealed to Miss Noel for help with her placket zipper, after which she brought out a bottle of lotion and proceeded to douse the English teacher gratefully with it. Fresh from the trash pits, Miss Noel, with supreme effort, resisted from making an untoward observation - and friendship was restored on the amicable note of a stuck zipper.

At 1:30, the superintendent's car and the weapons carrier containing the supervisors drove through the town arch of Pugad Lawin. A runner, posted at the town gate since morning, came panting down the road but was outdistanced by the vehicles. The principal still in undershirt and drawers, shaving his jowls by the window, first sighted the approaching party. Instantly, the room was in a hustle. Grimy socks, Form 137's and a half bottle of beer found their way into Mr. Olbes' desk drawer. A sophomore breezed down the corridor holding aloft a newly-pressed barong on a wire hanger. Behind the closed door, Mrs. Olbes wriggled determinedly into her corset.

The welcoming committee was waiting on the stone steps when the visitors alighted. It being Flag Day, the male instructors were attired in barong, the women in red, white or blue dresses in obedience to the principal's circular. The Social Studies teacher, hurrying down the steps to present the sampaguita garlands, tripped upon an unexpected pot of borrowed bougainvillea. Peeping from an upstairs window, the kitchen group noted that there were only twelve arrivals. Later it was brought out that the National Language Supervisor had gotten a severe stomach cramp and had to be left at the Health Center; that Miss Santos (PE) and Mr. del Rosario (Military Tactics) had eloped at dawn.

Four pairs of hands fought for the singular honor of wrenching open the car door, and Mr. Alava emerged into the sunlight. He was brown as a sampaloc seed. Mr. Alava gazed with satisfaction upon the patriotic faculty and belched his approval in cigar smoke upon the landscape. The principal, rivaling a total eclipse, strode towards Mr. Alava minus a cuff link. "Compañero!" boomed the superintendent with outstretched arms.

"Compañero!" echoed Mr. Olbes. They embraced darkly.

There was a great to-do in the weapons carrier. The academic supervisor's pabaon of live crabs from Mapili had gotten entangled with the kalamay in the Home Economics supervisor's basket. The district supervisor had mislaid his left shoe among the squawking chickens and someone had stepped on the puto seco. There were overnight bags and reed baskets to unload, bundles of perishable and unperishable going-away gifts. (The Home Economics staff's dilemma: sans ice box, how to preserve all the food till the next morning). A safari of Pugad Lawin instructors lent their shoulders gallantly to the occasion.

Vainly, Miss Noel searched in the crowd for the old Language Arts supervisor. All the years she had been in Pugad Lawin, Mr. Ampil had come: in him there was no sickening bureaucracy, none of the self-importance and pettiness that often characterized the small public official . He was dedicated to the service of education, had grown old in it. He was about the finest man Miss Noel had ever known.

How often had the temporary teachers had to court the favor of their supervisors with lavish gifts of sweets, de hilo, portfolios and what-not, hoping that they would be given a favorable recommendation! A permanent position for the highest bidder. But Miss Noel herself had never experienced this rigmarole -- she had passed her exams and had been recommended to the first vacancy by Mr. Ampil without having uttered a word of flattery or given a single gift. It was ironic that even in education, you found the highest and the meanest forms of men.

Through the crowd came a tall unfamiliar figure in a loose coat, a triad of pens leaking in his pocket. Under the brave nose, the chin had receded like a gray hermit crab upon the coming of a great wave. "Miss Noel, I presume?" said the stranger.

The English teacher nodded. "I am the new English supervisor - Sawit is the name." The tall man shook her hand warmly.

"Did you have a good trip, Sir?"

Mr. Sawit made a face. "Terrible!"

Miss Noel laughed. "Shall I show you to your quarters? You must be tired."

"Yes, indeed," said Mr. Sawit. "I'd like to freshen up. And do see that someone takes care of my orchids, or my wife will skin me alive."

The new English supervisor gathered his portfolios and Miss Noel picked up the heavy load of orchids. Silently, they walked down the corridor of the Home Economics building, hunter and laden Indian guide.

"I trust nothing's the matter with Mr. Ampil, Sir?"

"Then you haven't heard? The old fool broke a collar bone. He's dead."

"Oh."

"You see, he insisted on doing all the duties expected of him - he'd be ahead of us in the school we were visiting if he felt we were dallying on the road. He'd go by horseback, or carabao sled to the distant ones where the road was inaccessible by bus - and at his age! Then, on our visitation to barrio Tungkod - you know that place, don't you?"

Miss Noel nodded.

"On the way to the godforsaken island, that muddy hellhole, he slipped on the banca - and well, that's it."

"How terrible."

"Funny thing is - they had to pass the hat around to buy him a coffin. It turned out the fellow was as poor as a churchmouse. You'd think, why this old fool had been thirty-three years in the service. Never a day absent. Never a day late. Never told a lie. You'd think at least he'd get a decent burial - but he hadn't reached 65 and wasn't going to get a cent he wasn't working for. Well, anyway, that's a thorn off your side."

Miss Noel wrinkled her brow, puzzled.

"I thought all teachers hated strict supervisors." Mr. Sawit elucidated. "Didn't you all quake for your life when Mr. Ampil was there waiting at the door of the classroom even before you opened it with your key?"

"Feared him, yes," said Miss Noel. "But also respected and admired him for what he stood for."

Mr. Sawit shook his head smiling. "So that's how the wind blows," he said, scratching a speck of dust off his earlobe.

Miss Noel deposited the supervisor's orchids in the corridor. They had reached the reconverted classroom that Mr. Sawit was to occupy with two others.

"You must be kind to us poor supervisors," said Mr. Sawit as Miss Noel took a cake of soap and a towel from the press. "The things we go through!" Meticulously, Mr. Sawit peeled back his shirt sleeves to expose his pale hairless wrists. "At Pagkabuhay, Miss What's-her-name, the grammar teacher, held a demonstration class under the mango trees. Quite impressive, and modern; but the class had been so well rehearsed that they were reciting like machine guns. I think it's some kind of a code they have, like if the student knows the answer he is to raise his left hand, and if he doesn't he is to raise his right, something to that effect." Mr. Sawit reached for the towel hanging on Miss Noel's arm.

"What I mean to say is, hell, what's the use of going through all that palabas? As I always say," Mr. Sawit raised his arm and pumped it vigorously in the air, "Let's get to the heart of what matters."

Miss Noel looked up with interest. "You mean get into the root of the problem?"

"Hell no!" the English supervisor said, "I mean the dance! I always believe there's no school problem that a good round of tango will not solve!"

Mr. Sawit groped blindly for the towel to wipe his dripping face and came up to find Miss Noel smiling.

"Come, girl," he said lamely. "I was really only joking."

As soon as the bell rang, Miss Noel entered I-B followed by Mr. Sawit. The students were nervous. You could see their hands twitching under the desks. Once in a while they glanced apprehensively behind to where Mr. Sawit sat on a cane chair, straight as a bamboo. But as the class began, the nervousness vanished and the boys launched into the recitation with aplomb. Confidently, Miss Noel sailed through a sea of prepositions, using the Oral Approach Method:

"I live in a barrio."

"I live in a town."

"I live in Pugad Lawin."

"I live on a street."

"I live on Calle Real…"

Mr. Sawit scribbled busily on his pad.

Triumphantly, Miss Noel ended the period with a trip to the back of the building where the students had constructed a home-made printing press and were putting out their first school paper.

The inspection of the rest of the building took exactly half an hour. It was characterized by a steering away from the less presentable parts of the school (except for the Industrial Arts supervisor who, unwatched, had come upon and stood gaping at the French soap poster). The twenty-three strains of bougainvillea received such a chorus of praise and requests for cutting that the poor teachers were nonplussed on how to meet them without endangering life and limb from their rightful owners. The Academic supervisor commented upon the surprisingly fresh appearance of the Amitosis chart and this was of course followed by a ripple of nervous laughter. Mr. Sawit inquired softly of Miss Noel what the town's cottage industry was, upon instructions of his uncle, the supervisor.

"Buntal hats," said Miss Noel.

The tour ended upon the sound of the dinner bell and at 7 o'clock the guests sat down to supper. The table, lorded over by a stuffed Bontoc eagle, was indeed an impressive sight. The flowered soup plates borrowed from Mrs. Valenton vied with Mrs. De los Santos' bone china. Mrs. Alejandro's willoware server rivalled but could not quite outshine the soup tureens of Mrs. Cruz. Pink paper napkins blossomed grandly in a water glass.

The superintendent took the place of honor at the head of the table with Mr. Olbes at his right. And the feast began. Everyone partook heavily of the elaborate dishes; there were second helpings and many requests for toothpicks. On either side of Mr. Alava, during the course of the meal, stood Miss Rosales and Mrs. Olbes, the former fanning him, the latter boning the lapu-lapu on his plate. The rest of the Pugad Lawin teachers, previously fed on hopia and coke, acted as waitresses. Never was a beer glass empty, never a napkin out of reach, and the supervisors, with murmured apologies, belched approvingly. Towards the end of the meal, Mr. Alava inquired casually of the principal where he could purchase some buntal hats. Elated, the latter replied that it was the cottage industry right here in Pugad Lawin. They were, however, the principal said, not for sale to colleagues. The Superintendent shook his head and said he insisted on paying, and brought out his wallet, upon which the principal was so offended he would not continue eating. At last the superintendent said, all right, compañero, give me one or two hats, but the principal shook his head and ordered his alarmed teachers to round up fifty; and the ice cream was served.

Close upon the wings of the dinner tripped the Social Hour. The hosts and the guests repaired to the sala where a rondalla of high school boys were playing an animated rendition of "Merry Widow" behind the hat rack. There was a concerted reaching for open cigar boxes and presently the room was clouded with acrid black smoke. Mr. Olbes took Miss Noel firmly by the elbow and steered her towards Mr. Alava who, deep in a cigar, sat wide-legged on the carved sofa. "Mr. Superintendent," said the principal. "This is Miss Noel, our English teacher. She would be greatly honored if you open the dance with her."

"Compañero," twinkled the superintendent. "I did not know Pugad Lawin grew such exquisite flowers."

Miss Noel smiled thinly. Mr. Alava's terpsichorean knowledge had never advanced beyond a bumbling waltz. They rocked, gyrated, stumbled, recovered, rolled back into the center, amid a wave of teasing and applause. To each of the supervisors, in turn, the principal presented a pretty instructor, while the rest, unattractive or painfully shy, and therefore unfit offering to the gods, were left to fend for themselves. The first number was followed by others in three-quarter time and Miss Noel danced most of them with Mr. Sawit.

At ten o'clock, the district supervisor suggested that they all drive to the next town where the fiesta was being celebrated with a big dance in the plaza. All the prettier lady teachers were drafted and the automotive instructor was ordered behind the wheel of the weapons carrier. Miss Noel remained behind together with Mrs. Divinagracia and the Home Economics staff, pleading a headache. Graciously, Mr. Sawit also remained behind.

As Miss Noel repaired to the kitchen, Mr. Sawit followed her. "The principal tells me you are quite headstrong, Miss Noel," he said. "But then I don't put much stock by what principals say."

Miss Noel emptied the ashtrays in the trash can. "If he meant why I refused to dance with Mr. Lucban…"

"No, just things in general," said Mr. Sawit. "The visitation, for instance. What do you think of it?"

Miss Noel looked into Mr. Sawit's eyes steadily. "Do you want my frank opinion, Sir?"

"Yes, of course."

"Well, I think it's all a farce."

"That's what I've heard - what makes you think that?"

"Isn't it obvious? You announce a whole month ahead that you're visiting. We clean the schoolhouse, tuck the trash in the drawers, bring out our best manners. As you said before, we rehearse our classes. Then we roll out the red carpet - and you believe you observe us in our everyday surrounding, in our everyday comportment?"

"Oh, we know that."

"That's what I mean - we know that you know. And you know that we know that you know."

Mr. Sawit gave out an embarrassed laugh. "Come now, isn't that putting it a trifle strongly?"

"No," replied Miss Noel. "In fact, I overheard one of your own companions say just a while ago that if your lechon were crisper than that of the preceding school, if our pabaon were more lavish, we would get a higher efficiency rating."

"Of course he was merely joking. I see what Mr. Olbes meant about your being stubborn."

"And what about one supervisor, an acquaintance of yours, I know, who used to come just before the town fiesta and assign us the following items: 6 chickens, 150 eggs, 2 goats, 12 leche flans. I know the list by heart - I was assigned the checker."

"There are a few miserable exceptions…"

"What about the sweepstakes agent supervisor who makes a ticket of the teacher's clearance for the withdrawal of his pay? How do you explain him?"

Mr. Sawit shook his head as if to clear it.

"Sir, during the five years that I've taught, I've done my best to live up to my ideals. Yet I please nobody. It's the same old narrow conformism and favor-currying. What matters is not how well one teaches but how well one has learned the art of pleasing the powers-that-be and it's the same all the way up."

Mr. Sawit threw his cigar out of the window in an arc. "So you want to change the world. I've been in the service a long time, Miss Noel. Seventeen years. This bald spot on my head caused mostly by new teachers like you who want to set the world on fire. In my younger days I wouldn't hesitate to recommend you for expulsion for your rash opinions. But I've grown old and mellow - I recognize spunk and am willing to give it credit. But spunk is only hard-headedness when not directed towards the proper channels. But you're young enough and you'll learn, the hard way, singed here and there - but you'll learn."

"How are you so sure?" asked Miss Noel narrowly.

"They all do. There are thousands of teachers. They're mostly disillusioned but they go on teaching - it's the only place for a woman to go."

"There will be a reclassification next month," continued Mr. Sawit. "Mr. Olbes is out to get you - he can, too, on grounds of insubordination, you know that. But I'm willing to stick my neck out for you if you stop being such an idealistic fool and henceforth express no more personal opinions. Let sleeping dogs lie, Miss Noel. I shall give you a good rating after this visitation because you remind me of my younger sister, if for no other reason. Then after a year, when I find that you learned to curb your tongue, I will recommend you for a post in Manila where your talents will not be wasted. I am related to Mr. Alava, you know."

Miss Noel bit her lip in stunned silence. Is this what she had been wasting her years on? She had worked, she had slaved - with a sting of tears she remembered all the parties missed ("Can't wake up early tomorrow, Clem"), alliances forgone ("Really, I haven't got the time, maybe some other year?") the chances by-passed ("Why, she's become a spinster!") - then to come face to face with what one has worked for - a boor like Mr. Sawit! How did one explain him away? What syllogisms could one invent to rub him out of the public school system? Below the window, Miss Noel heard a giggle as one of the Pugad Lawin teachers was pursued by a mischievous supervisor in the playground.

"You see," the voice continued, "education is not so much a matter of brains as getting along with one's fellowmen, else how could I have risen to my present position?" Mr. Sawit laughed harshly. "All the fools I started out with are still head-teachers in godforsaken barrios, and how can one be idealistic in a mudhole? Goodnight, my dear." Mr. Sawit's hot trembling hand (the same mighty hand that fathered the 8-A's that made or broke English teachers) found its way swiftly around her waist, and hot on her forehead Miss Noel endured the supreme insult of a wet, fatherly kiss.

Give up your teaching, she heard her aunt say again for the hundredth time, and in a couple of months you might be the head. We need someone educated because we plan to export.

Oh, to be able to lie in a hammock on the top of the hill and not have to worry about the next lesson plan! To have time to meet people, to party, to write.

She remembered Clem coming into the house (after the first troubled months of teaching) and persuading her to come to Manila because his boss was in need of a secretary. Typing! Filing! Shorthand! She had spat the words contemptuously back at him. I was given a head so I could think! Pride goeth… Miss Noel bowed her head in silence. Could anyone in the big, lighted offices of the city possibly find use for a stubborn, cranky, BSE major?

As Miss Noel impaled the coffee cups upon the spokes of the drainboard, she heard the door open and the student named Leon come in for the case of beer empties.

"Pandemonium over, Ma'am?" he asked. Miss Noel smile dimly. Dear perceptive Leon. He wanted to become a lawyer. Pugad Lawin's first. What kind of a piker was she to betray a dream like that? What would happen to him if she wasn't there to teach him his p's and f's? Deep in the night and the silence outside flickered an occasional gaslight in a hut on the mountain shaped like a sleeping woman. Was Porfirio deep in a Physics book? (Oh, but he mustn't blow up any more pigshed.) What was Juanita composing tonight? (An ode on starlight on the trunk of a banana tree?) Leon walked swiftly under the window: in Miss Noel's eyes he had already won a case. Why do I have to be such a darn missionary?

Unafraid, the boy Leon stepped into the night, the burden of bottles light on his back.

After breakfast the next morning, the supervisors packed their belongings and were soon ready. Mr. Buenaflor fetched a camera and they all posed on the sunny steps for a souvenir photo: the superintendent with Mr. and Mrs. Olbes on either side of him and the minor gods in descending order on the Home Economics stairs. Miss Noel was late - but she ran to take her place with pride and humility on the lowest rung of the school's hierarchy.

Mae Astrid Tobias' "Sweet and Tender Hooligans"

This is a story from the book Bagets: An Anthology of Young Adult Fiction edited by Carla M. Pacis and Eugene Y. Evasco. It was published by the UP Press. The book is a little bourgeois for my taste. Most stories have a very distinct “conyo” flair that is not necessarily absent from the other works posted here.

This story by Tobias is a bittersweet story about young love very little different from my own work “100 Days to Graduation”. Rene Villanueva's commentary on the back of the book reads:

Here, finally, is a collection of short stories written in both English and Filipino for Filipino teenagers that discuss their issues and concerns in well-told narratives that are funny, poignant, cautionary, and even a bit risque.

"Nagkakagulan na ang Kuting. Lalong humuhusay ang pagkukuwento ng lahat para sa kabataang mambabasa na nagkakaedad na rin."

Tobias' profile in the book reads

"[Tobias] graduated with a degree in English (Creative Writing) from UP Diliman and is currently taking her MA in English Creative Writing. She is the author of the book My Forest Friends, the first in the Happy to be Free series by Haribon. She is also the bureau manager of the Kabataan News Network (KNN) Manila Bureau. She was a fellow in the 1st Barlaya Writing for Children Workshop and the 43rd UP National Writers' Workshop. She received honorable mention in the 2002 PBBY--Alfredo Navarro Salanga Writers Prize for her narrative poem, "Ang Gulong ni Bong." In the 2003 Palanca Awards, she won second prize in the Maikling Kuwentong Pambata category for her story "Bayong ng Kuting". Astrid was president of the Kuwentista ng mga Tsikiting (KUTING) from 2004-2006.

-

Ann Louise arranged it so conveniently Tita Christy hardly asked any questions.

"You don't have to worry, Mom," she said. "Kuya Martin will pick me up here at six and bring me back home around midnight. You and Dad can enjoy a nice evening out."

"I'm not worried, dear," Tita Christy said. "But isn't it a bit inconvenient for you, Martin?"

I shook my head and smiled. "It's fine."

"You've always been so patient with Ann Louise," Tita Christy said. "Your Tito Bot and I would never know what do without you."

"Kasi, Tita, you should allow Ann Louise to have a boyfriend na, so someone can take care of her," I kidded. Ann Louise quickly turned to me and made a face. Shut up! Shut up! she mouthed.

"Hay naku, Martin! Not until she's thirty! You know I want Ann Louise to be a lawyer. Boyfriends will distract her. E, paano kung mabuntis 'yan?"

"Mom!" Ann Louise interrupted.

"I'm not stupid, Ann Louise. I know what you kids are up to. I went through the same things."

Then Tita Christy continued on and on about her own high school experiences. I kept my smile plastered on my face and nodded occasionally, pretending I was listening intently to her diatribe on today's generation. Ann Louise just shook her head at me. She was telepathically telling me, "I told you to shut up."

I was only one year older than Ann Louise, but when we were a lot younger, we were best friends. Tita Christy called us hooligans, though I had no idea what the word meant at that time. We menaced the neighborhood with our pranks and mischief. Together, we climbed our neighbor's fates to pick gumamela flowers to make bubbles. Pots and pans disappeared from our kitchens and found their way to the clubhouse Ann Louise and I built on the vacant lot at the end of the street. We even bathed naked under the monsson rains of August.

♥♥♥♥♥♥

As the years passed, we saw less and less of each other. We would bump into each other at the chapel after attending mass or at the neighborhood sari-sari store. It was only when I entered college that I saw Ann Louise almost regularly again.

Almost every day, I passed the co-ed science high school Ann Louise attended. Sometimes, on my way to the university, I gave Ann Louise a lift. That was when we would catch up on old times.

"I'm on the cheerleading squad," she said.

"Captain?"

"No, but it's okay. They only took me in because I was tiny. You know, so they can carry and toss me around. Besides, I'm the lightest so I get to climb the top of the pyramid."

"Is it scary?"

"At first, yeah. I used to get this funny feeling in my stomach when I stood on top of the boys' shoulders, but you get used to it."

"There are boys in the squad?"

"Of course! You know what? You should watch us sometime. I'll give you our schedule." Ann Louise rummaged through her knapsack and tore a page from her notebook. She quickly scribbled down her schedule. "We usually rehearse in your gym."

♥♥♥♥♥♥

One afternoon, I passed Ann Louise's high school, having made it part of my route home. The students were already dismissed and huddled by the entrance. I slowed down to let them cross the street. A young couple standing by the sidewalk caught my attention. The guy worse a baseball jersey and cap with the number 9 emblazoned in front. An enormous duffel bag was slung over his shoulder. The handle of a baseball bat stuck out. I almost didn't recognize the girl beside him--it was Ann Louise. She wore dark blue jogging pants and a tight white shirt with the school's name written across the chest. They just stood there. Not talking. They didn't cross the street or make any motion to hail the passing jeepneys. I honked my horn as I drove in front of them. I rolled down the window on the side of the passenger seat.

"Ann Louise! Where are you going? May I give you and your friend a lift?"

Ann Louise seemed startled. She looked at me, then at Baseball Guy, and back at me.

"Are you going home?" she asked.

I nodded.

"Okay," Ann Louise opened the door and got in. She looked back at her companion, but said nothing.

"Ikaw?" I asked him.

"Okay lang po," he said.

♥♥♥♥♥♥

As I drove away, Ann Louise kept looking back at the sidewalk. From my rearview mirror, I saw Baseball Guy cross the street and hail a passing jeepney.

"Boyfriend?"

"Don't tell Mom, okay?"

♥♥♥♥♥♥

Ever since I picked her up that day, I made it a point to pass by her school every afternoon. Often, I saw her on their campus, hanging out with Baseball Guy. If I didn't pass them standing on the sidewalk, waiting for a rise home, I slowed down hoping to find them somewhere around the campus. I spotted them sitting on the stone benches or walking on the grass. Baseball Guy carried Ann Louise' knapsack on his shoulder while Ann Louise held her books tightly to her chest. Their elbows barely brushed against each other. I hardly noticed any animated conversation between them. Sometimes, they just looked at opposite directions, seemingly conscious they were being watched.

There were afternoons when the campus yielded no sign of them. I would imagine them roaming the hallways of their building. I often wondered what they did or what they talked about when they were away from prying eyes.

♥♥♥♥♥♥

Each time I gave Ann Louise a lift to or from school, she told me bits and pieces about her Baseball Guy.

"His name's Greg. He's a pitcher in the baseball team," she said. "We've always been classmates, but I never noticed him until we became lab partners last year in Chemistry. DUring one experiment, he wondered out loud if drinking silver nitrate would give him mutant powers. I told him that, to be a mutant, he has to have been born with his own powers. That got us talking about the X-men movie, and I told him how I liked the old comics better. Come to think of it, Greg sometimes reminds me of you. I still have your old comics, you know that? I borrowed them way, way back, but I never got around to returning them. But don't worry, I'll return them."

I had forgotten all about those comics. I didn't care about them anymore.

"It's okay, you can have them," I said.

"Really? Thanks! Anyway, don't tell Mom, okay? But this weekend, after practice, we're going to catch the X-men movie again. Wanna come? Bring a date?"

♥♥♥♥♥♥

I accepted Ann Louise' invitation. That Saturday, I showed up at the gym to pick her up. Baseball Guy was supposed to meet us at the mall, since he lived only one jeepney ride away. WHen I arrived, they were finishing up the pyramid routine. I sat on the bleachers to watch them. Ann Louise waved at me just before she clambered up the shoulders of the male cheerleaders. THe rest of the team clapped to the beat being banged on a gigantic bass drum. When Ann Louise finally reached the top, she flashed a civtorious smile at me and raised her arms up high to form the letter V. Then, she jumped. As she fell, I almost stood up form my seat. Something in me wanted to run to the floor to try to catch her. My heart beat louder and faster than the bass drum. But that was only for a moment. Her small frame quickly distappeared in a bed of arms laid out by her compnions. She bounced back on her feet. Everyone in the gym cheered and applauded. I felt my hands turn clammy, and I wiped the beads of sweat which formed on my forehead.

♥♥♥♥♥♥

When we arrived at the cinema, there was a long line at the ticket booth. Baseball Guy arrived early and already bought two tickets for balcony seats. Ann Louise seemed ot have forgotten to mention to Baseball Guy that I was tagging along. I took my place at the end of the line while Ann Louise introduced us to each other. "Greg, Kuya Martin. Kuya Martin, Greg." I extended my hand to give him a handshake, but Baseball Guy only nodded.

"Why don't you guys go ahead and save me a seat?" I suggested. "I won't take long."

♥♥♥♥♥♥

Getting my ticket, a quick trip to the men's room, and lining up for popcorn and soda took longer than I expected. By the time I entered the cinema, the lights had been dimmed. I waited at the top of the stairs for my eyesight to adjust to the dark. The balcony seats were barely occupied. A group of high school students took the center seats. A middle-aged woman sat by herself. Through the light of the flickering screen, I thought I saw them. They chose the farthest corner of the farthest row. Their arms locked in an embrace. Their faces pressed against each other. I could almost hear a low moan coming from their direction. The usher shone his flashlights at the seats to show me the way. The couple disengaged. At the other end of the row, I saw Ann Louise waving frantically at me. I scurried in the dark and cut across the seats. The movie was about to start.

I took the seat nearest to the aisle. Ann Louise was sandwiched between Baseball Guy and me. Ann Louise held the popcorn, Baseball Guy drank the soda. I pretended to watch the movie. From the corner of my eye, I watched Baseball Guy and his hands. I might have missed a couple of action scenes where the X-men were in battle, but I made sure Baseball Guy's fingers didn't go crawling beyond the boundaries of the armrest.

I didn't know how Ann Louise managed to convince me to play along, but I did. Together, we arranged conspiracies to hide her relationship with Baseball Guy from her mother. Every time they arranged to go out, I would be her cover. "Mom, Kuya Martin is going with us to the movies." Tita Christy always agreed.

Kuya Martin was there. No need to worry. So they managed to hide their relationship for months.

♥♥♥♥♥♥

And then the prom came. The plan was quite simple, and I was in on it. The deal was like this: I pick her up, tell Tita Christy I was her date and drive her to school where Baseball Guy would be waiting. I was the chauffer who took the Princess to her Prince.

♥♥♥♥♥♥

"It's a dumb idea," I told her. "Sooner or later, you will have to tell your parents about Greg. I can't keep your secret for long."

"I will," she promised. "But you know how they are. THey would never let me go to the prom if they knew. They'd rather let me die an old maid!"

♥♥♥♥♥♥

I ironed my best shirt extra carefully. It was the same shirt I wore to my own prom. I also gave my shoes an extra layer of wax. As I rummaged through my father's drawer for a suitable tie, he walked in.

♥♥♥♥♥♥

"Hot date, I see," he said. "Here, let me help you with that tie."

"It's not what you think," I mumbled. "I'm going to the prom."

"Really? I thought you graduated from high school last year?"

"It's Ann Louise's."

"That's sweet, son. Taking your childhood sweetheart to the prom. Have fun."

Ann Louise was still getting ready when I arrived at their residence. Tito Bot was there to welcome me while Tita Christy assisted her in the room.

"Nervous?" Ann Louise' dad asked. He handed me a glass of soda to drink.

"Not really. I've done this before. I mean, going to the prom and all."

"I guess you couldn't get enough of it, huh?" he chuckled and jabbed me on my rib.

♥♥♥♥♥♥

When Ann Louise emerged from her room, I stood up and handed her a corsage for props. She allowed me to attach the flower to her dress. I fumbled while I tried to pin the corsage where the spaghetti strap met the rest of her gown.

♥♥♥♥♥♥

This was the closest I had ever been to Ann Louise. THere was electricity when I touched her skin. I felt intoxicated by her fragrance. It reminded me of flowers and how it used to be when we were kids. During the month of May, Ann Louise and I joined all the kids in the neighborhood to offer flowers to the Virgin Mary. We roamed the streets in search of flowers to pick. We clambered the walls stealing santan and sampaguita from the bushes which grew on the other side. THe thorns of the bougainvillea pricked our fingers. Then, there were afternoons when Tita Christy wouldn't let Ann Louise out, until she took her nap. I was left alone to search for the flowers. When it was time to go to the chapel, I fetched Ann Louise in her house, clutching my loot close to my chest. I gave Ann Louise all the flowers I found. My hands, caked in dried blood and mud, had the sweet scent of the ilang-ilang I had picked.

♥♥♥♥♥♥

The parking lot was swarming with Ann Louise's classmates, all dressed and made up. Girls in their pink and baby blue gowns flowed out of the parked vans. They giggled and praised one another's gowns. They kept looking at their compact mirrors. More girls flocked near the restrooms, chattering loudly. A group of boys, newly bathed and well-combed, assembled together around the stone benches. They clutched long-stemmed roses for their dates. Some tapped their feet nervously as they took quick puffs on a lighted cigarette they tried to conceal behind their backs. As soon as she got out of the car, Ann Louise craned her neck in search of her escort.

"I guess he hasn't arrived, yet," she whispered to herself.

"I'll take you to your friends, okay?"

♥♥♥♥♥♥

Ann Louise and I followed the string of yellow, red, and green blinking lights that lit the school corridors and led us to the gymnasium. Once we entered, Ann Louise squealed with childish delight and shook my arm vigorously.

"There he is!" she pointed. I looked around and spotted Baseball Guy huddling together with his friends beside the buffet table. Ann Louise waved. He waved back, but made no indication of coming to meet us. She has to pull me towards him.

"Greg!" she called out. He smiled and pulled out a long-stemmed rose from behind him. He bent over to whisper something in Ann Louise' ear. She smiled demurely and pressed her nose closely to the flower.

I frowned.

"I'll be okay, Kuya Mart," she reassured me. "I'll see you at twelve, okay?"

♥♥♥♥♥♥

I didn't know what overcame me. The next thing I knew, I held on to Ann Louise's hand and leaned over to kiss her cheek.

"Kuya Martin, what are you doing?" Ann Louise pulled back. Her face was as red as the rose Baseball Guy just handed to her. Baseball Guy stiffened but didn't make any move. I turned to make a quick exit, but not quick enough to overhear Baseball Guy's snickering friends. I could feel Ann Louise's embarrasment. I suddenly felt sorry for what I did.

♥♥♥♥♥♥

The movie I decided to watch ended earlier than expected. So I found myself in the school parking lot an hour before midnight. The prom was not yet over. Dance music was stillblaring from the direction of the gymnasium. I maneuvered my car around the lot in search of a spot. The lot was already full. It seemed some parents didn't leave after dropping off their children. I finally found a suitable place on the unlit open field adjacent to the parking lot. In the morning, I would see students playing soccer there. But tonight, there were only shadows. The car wheels embedded tread marks on the mud; the grass was flattened under their weight. Under the light of a makeshift lamp, drivers of the other vehicles huddled for a game of tong-its.

♥♥♥♥♥♥

I retraced my way to the gymnasium. I followed the mismatched Christmas lights I saw earlier and the staggering flow of couples coming out of the gym. The long corridor to the gym branched out into the dark classroom pavillions. I found myself exploring them, instead of going straight to the gym. Anyway, I was early, I thought.

♥♥♥♥♥♥

My long figure cast a long shadow on the corridors. My footsteps exhoed as I turned to the pavillions. They all looked identical. Each had a series of doors, bulletin boards, and a long hallway which seemed to vanish into nowhere. I only ventured into the parts where there was still a shimmer of light. Occasionally, I paused to read the notices posted on the boards. There was something in the darkness that made me uncomfortable. Something made me feel I wasn't alone in the pavillions. Maybe it was the display cases of the students' projects in the science pavilion. They had a collection of freaky objects. In what seemed to be the Biology wing, stuffed parrots and cats stared at me with amber eyes. Butterflies, pinned by their wings, laid flat on a bed of cotton. Aborted fetuses of various animals floated lifelessly in bottles filled with formalin. I recognized a human fetus inside one of them. A chill ran up my spine. I moved quickly to the next display case, where molecule models were on display.

♥♥♥♥♥♥

Music from the gym could be heard in the pavilions. It had changed from dance to slow. The lights must have been turned dimmer. The students must have broken up into pairs. I could imagine Ann Louise and Baseball Guy doing a slow dance. Her cheek resting on his chest. His arms wrapped around her tiny waist. Her waist--I could probably measure it by the size of my two hands.

I shook my head violently, trying to erase the image from my mind.

♥♥♥♥♥♥

After looking at the molecule display, I turned to return to the main corridor. As I passed the Biology display, something made me stop. U heard hushed voices. I looked hard into the darkness, but I couldn't see any movement. I edged nearer the display until the voices became more audible. They came from inside the lab. I extended my hand to turn the doorknob only to grip thin air. Instead, I found a round gaping hole, letting me see through. I peeked. Light from an open window illuminated portions of the classroom. It looked like an ordinary science laboratory. The voices quieted down, probably because they heard my footsteps approaching. I held my breath and waited.

♥♥♥♥♥♥

"We have to go," a voice whispered. Then a grunt. I took off my shoes and tiptoed as fast as I could to the main corridor. The prom was already winding down. I could hear the voice of an emcee thanking the students for coming. I hurred to go back to the parking lot, but not before taking a last glimpse at the science pavilion. Two figured were emerging from the dark.

It took me a while before I could find Ann Louise and Baseball Guy from the wave of students coming out of the gym. I waved as soon as I saw her. Ann Louis wore Baseball Guy's coat over her gown. She said she was cold, but beads of sweat had formed around her forehead. Baseball Guy escorted us both back to the car, where Ann Louise gave him a quick peck on the cheek.

"Had fun?" I asked.

"Super!" she replied, then she continued to smooth her rumpled gown and comb her hair with her fingers.

♥♥♥♥♥♥

At the stroke of midnight, I was parked right in front of Ann Louise's doorstep. She was about to open her door when I stopped her.

"You should use my coat instead," I said. I switched on the light in my car so I could grab my coat in the back seat. Ann Louise removed Baseball Guy's coat and revealed her bare shoulders. Just beneath her throat, I spotted a slight red mark.

"Is that what I think it is?" I said.

Ann Louise blushed. She whispered, "Don't tell Mom, okay?"

Before she could pull away, I grabbed Ann Louise by her arm. I must have held her too tightly, because she winced. I loosened my grip. Welts seemed to appear where my fingers held her.

"Did he hurt you? Did he make you do anything you didn't want?" I asked.

"What are you talking about, Kuya Martin? I had fun!" Ann Louise put on my coat, pulling it tightly around her throat and then bounced out the car.

♥♥♥♥♥♥

I waited until Ann Louise disappeared behind her door. She left Baseball Guy's coat with me. Crushed beneath it was my corsage. The orchid hung limply by its pin.

Sicily dLR's My Favorite Regret [1/2]

Sicily is a dear friend of mine. She writes better than I ever would. Ah, yes, and also, welcome to the angst.

----------

He was bound to be another could-have-been.

She would welcome the morning of every weekday with the prospect of seeing him again. She would come in 30 minutes early and stare momentarily at the empty workstation behind hers with an unexplainable tinge of longing coursing through her veins. He would arrive and fill that space later, with an occasional tap on her back to greet her a good morning. She would mask her gladness by throwing him a casual “Hey..”, he would either tap her again with more force or shake the backrest of her chair in acknowledgement.

She would inhale sharply to steady her nerves, which curiously still happened after half a year of closely working with him. He would spend the first hour answering emails and phone calls and instant messages that immediately popped into his computer screen the moment he switches it on. She would be overly aware of the sound of his nimble fingers typing away on his keyboard and would be stealing glances at him through the reflection on her monitor.

He would call her a dozen horrendous nicknames during the eight and usually more hours they spent together, one after the other. She would respond to these names then realize it, and she would pretend to be angry at him, looking sideways at him with daggers flying out of her eyes. He would be amused with her reaction and laugh at her while coughing out his apologies. She would take one glance at his face and forget she was starting to get annoyed. And they would laugh together for a few minutes, not really understanding what the other was saying but completely aware of what was happening – the laughter was forging a stronger bond between them, beyond the professional partnership that started everything.

She would be busy reviewing UNIX codes, accepting impromptu requests from their partner team, and modifying the same reports for hours on end. He would be running around in meetings, attending to “immediate” issues, and talking with people on his mobile phone. After five, their teammates would leave one by one and soon they would be alone, staring at their computer screens, working in complete silence.

He would break the silence every time, sometimes with a question or with another nickname for her or with an invitation to eat dinner in the canteen downstairs. More than a few times she would diss going home early just to hear him say, “Let’s eat!” He would start small talk, usually with more teasing, then move on to more serious topics which mostly had something to do with her personal life. She would laugh at his curiosity, but would avoid looking at him in the eyes for fear of giving him more information than she would have wanted to be known.

He would offer to drive her home on the nights they had to stay late for official business. She would decline at first, but after a few pleas from him she would find herself sitting beside him inside his car. He would sit back comfortably, she would be still and silent but restless and nervous. She would feel her pulse racing from the moment he opened the car door to let her in up to the moment she closed her bedroom door when she arrived safely home.

He would call her up in the most unlikely times to ask about trivial things which may or may not involve work. She would store his text messages in her inbox long after she first read them, most of which contained nonsense and ramblings but would be precious to her just the same. He would jokingly blame her when something went wrong and would mockingly repeat some of the things she said which he found amusing. She, on the other hand, would take every chance she could get to bash his vanity and shelteredness.

He would always have that effect on her, she knew. He would talk softly, she would listen attentively and remember every single word which came out of his lips. He would sit unnecessarily close to her when they discussed something, she would get intoxicated with his fresh, clean scent. His hand would brush against hers, she would be almost certain that he let his fingers purposely linger a few split-seconds longer than what was necessary. He would sincerely ask her to smile when he saw her frowning, she would take one look at his boyish expression and all seemed a little better.

He would joke about missing her, falling for her, and she would immediately switch to another topic, turning away from him to conceal her flushed cheeks and suppressed smile. He would repeat those words over and over again, over and over again she would convince herself that it was more than just another teasefest. And in those moments when they were alone, sitting next to each other just talking or in absolute silence, smiling or laughing, she knew that there had to be some truth behind his jestful tone.

But it wouldn’t matter. He would continue opening doors for her, making up more grotesque nicknames, acting upon ingenious ways to annoy her for anything under the sun. He would perhaps even get past dropping not-so-subtle hints and move on to telling her straight out what the real deal was, no jokes, no punch lines. But she wouldn’t change. She would struggle to act normal around him, brush off any of his comments about caring for her as part of another joke, and turn away from him whenever his eyes got too intense, burning right into hers.

Because whenever she looks at him, she would be reminded that another soul was longing to have her close and look into her eyes while whispering the same three words that she would hear from him only in his punch lines. Whenever he says he misses her, she would hear another voice, sincere and sweet, without any trace of jest. And whenever she saw his beautiful, beautiful face smiling back at her, images of another’s sad tear-stained face would flash in her mind and that would be enough to bring her back to her senses.

Yes, he would be another could-have-been. And although she would always be wondering about what could have happened if they met when she was still a free soul, she would choose to stay and cherish the beauty of what already is.

Paz Marquez Benitez's "Dead Stars" [3/3]

I actually had this all typed up when I posted the second part. I don't know why I waited so long before I posted it. Laziness, I suppose.

Read about the author of this story, Paz Marquez Benitez, here and the book "Fourteen Love Stories" here.

-

As Alfredo Salazar leaned against the boat rail to watch the evening settling over the lake, he wondered if Esperanza would attribute any significance to this trip of his. He was supposed to be in Santa Cruz whither the case of the People of the Philippine Islands vs. Belina et al. had kept him, and there he would have been if Brigida Samuy had not been so important to the defense. He had to find that elusive old woman. That the search was leading him to that particular lake town which was Julia Salas’ home should not disturb him unduly. Yet, he was disturbed to a degree utterly out of proportion to the prosaicalness of his errand. That inner tumult was no surprise to him; in the last eight years he had become used to such occasional storms. HE had long realized that he could not forget Julia Salas. Still, he had tried to be content and not to remember too much. The climber of mountains who has known the backbreak, the lonesomeness, and the chill, finds a certain restfulness in level paths made easy to his feet. He looks up sometimes from the valley where settles the dusk of evening, but he knows he must not heed the radiant beckoning. Maybe, in time, he would cease even to look up.

He was not unhappy in his marriage. He felt no rebellion; only the calm of capitulation to what he recognized as irresistible forces of circumstances and of character. His life had simply ordered itself, no more struggles, no more stirring up of emotions that got a man nowhere. From his capacity of complete detachment he derived a strange solace. The essential himself, the himself that had its being in the core of his thought, would he, insistently, as sometimes they did, he retreated into the inner fastness, and from that vantage he saw strange things and people around him as remote and alien as incidents that did not matter. At such times did Esperanza feel baffled and helpless; he was gentle, even tender, but immeasurably far away, beyond her reach.

Lights were springing into life on the shore. That was the town, a little uptilted town nestling in the dark greenness of the groves. A snub-crested belfry stood beside the ancient church. On the outskirts, the evening smudges glowed red through the sinuous mists of smoke that rose and lost themselves in the purple shadows of the hills. There was a young moon which grew slowly luminous as the coral tints in the sky yielded to the darker blues of evening.

The vessel approached the landing quietly, trailing a wake of long golden ripples on the dark water. Peculiar hill inflections came to his ears form the crowd assembled to meet the boat—slow, singing cadences, characteristic of the Laguna lakeshore speech. From where he stood, he could not distinguish faces, so he had no way of knowing whether the presidente was there to meet him or not. Just then, a voice shouted.

“Is the abogado there? Abogado!”

“What abogado?” someone irately asked.

“Salazar.”

That must be the presidente, he thought and went down to the landing.

It was a policeman, a tall pockmarked individual. The presidente had left with Brigida Samuy—Tandang “Binday”—that noon for Santa Cruz. Señor Salazar’s second letter had arrived late, but the wife had read it and said, “Go and meet the abogado and invite him to our house.”

Alfredo Salazar courteously declined the invitation. He would sleep on board since the boat would leave at four the next morning, anyway. So the presidente had received his first letter? Alfredo did not know because that official had not sent an answer. “Yes,” the policeman replied, “but he could not write because we heard that Tandang Binday was in San Antonio, so we went there to find her.”

San Antonio was up in the hills! Good man, the presidente! He, Alfredo, must do something for him. It was not every day that one met with such willingness to help.

Eight o’clock, lugubriously tolled from the bell tower, found the boat settled into a somnolent quiet. A cot had been brought out and spread for him, but it was too bare to be inviting at that hour. It was too early to sleep: he would walk around the town. His heart beat faster as he picked his way to shore over the rafts made fast to sundry piles driven into the water.

How peaceful the town was! Here and there, a little tienda was still open, its dim light issuing forlornly through the single window which served as counter. AN occasional couple sauntered by, the woman’s chinelas making scraping sounds. From a distance came the shrill voices of children playing games on the street—tubigan perhaps, or hawk-and-chicken. The thought of Julia Salas in that quiet place filled him with pitying sadness.

How would life seem now if he had married Julia Salas? Had he meant anything to her? That unforgettable red-and-gold afternoon in early April haunted him with a sense of incompleteness as restlessness as other unlaid ghosts. She had not married—why? Faithfulness, he reflected, was not a conscious effort at regretful memory. It was something unvolitional, maybe a recurrent awareness of irreplaceability. Irrelevant trifles—a cool wind on his forehead, faraway sounds as of voices in a dream—at times moved him to an oddly irresistible impulse to listen as to an insistent, unfinished prayer.

A few inquiries led him to a certain little tree-ceilinged street where the young moon wove indistinct filigrees of light and shadow. In the gardens, the cotton tree threw its angular shadow athwart the low stone wall; and in the cool, stilly midnight the cock’s first call rose in tall, soaring jets of sound. Calle Luz.

Somehow or other, he had known that he would find her house because she would surely be sitting at the window. Where else, before bedtime on a moonlit night? The house was low and the light in the sala behind her threw her head into unmistakable relief. He sensed rather than saw her start of vivid surprise.

“Good evening,” he said, raising his hat.

“Good evening. Oh! Are you in town?”

“On some little business,” he answered with a feeling of painful constraint.

“Won’t you come up?”

He considered. His vague l=plans had not included this. But Julia Salas had left the window, calling to her mother as she did so. After a while, someone came downstairs with a lighted candle to open the door. At last—he was shaking her hand.

She had not changed much—a little less slender, not so eagerly alive, yet something had gone. He missed it, sitting opposite her, looking thoughtful into her fine dark eyes. She asked him about the hometown, about this and that, in a sober, somewhat meditative tone. He conversed with increasing ease, though with a growing wonder that he should be there at all. He could not take his eyes from her face. What had she lost? Or was the loss his? He felt an impersonal curiosity creeping into his gaze. The girl must have noticed, for her cheek darkened into a blush.

Gently—was it experimentally?—he pressed her hand at parting; but his own felt undisturbed and emotionless. Did she still care? The answer to the question hardly interested him.

He young moon had set, and from the uninviting cot he could see one half of a star-studded sky.

So that was all over.

Why, why had he obstinately clung to that dream from the weariness of actuality? And now, more actuality had robbed him of the dream.

So all these years—since when?—he had been seeing the light of dead stars, long extinguished, yet seemingly still in their appointed place in the heavens.

An immense sadness as of loss invaded his spirit; a vast homesickness for some immutable refuge of the heart far away where faded gardens bloom again, and where live on in unchanging freshness, the dear, dead loves of vanished youth.