today i looked at all my memories with you

I was thinking of how my graduation is coming up in December.
And I wanted to send you an invitation.

I was thinking of how to celebrate your birthday in September.
One hundred and three years of your life; 10 decades.

I was thinking of last Christmas when you and I just sat together.
In the middle of the food and gifts and the people, we laughed at all the things.

I was thinking of seeing you today.
Instead I looked at all the pictures I had with you.
I'm glad that all of them had us smiling together.

I thought I had more time with you.
It never crossed my mind that you might get tired.
People remark on your age but I barely gave it a thought.
I always felt that we were kindred spirits,
You in a 100 year old body, me in a 20 year old one
But always, we were friends.

I'll miss your stories of grand adventures of your past
I'll miss bringing you coffee and a little bit of 'yes, dulce lola'
I'll miss just sitting beside you and yelling a bit louder because you dislike your hearing aid
I'll miss listening to you speak a mishmash of Tagalog, Ilocano, Spanish, and English
I'll miss lending you books that you forget to bring back
I'll miss browsing for crossword puzzles and wondering if you have that one
I'll miss hearing of your dreams for me: to graduate with honors, to be my own person, to be happy
I'll miss watching you show off your jewelry and telling me where each one came from
I'll miss hugging you and resting our heads together while we watch others around us
I'll miss our conversations and our gossiping, and you saying I should paint and draw
I'll miss seeing your smiling face and hearing you laugh
I'll miss you
I miss you

A Year of Thanks, Almost

Dear _________,

Thank you. You have brought me so much this year that I apologize in advance knowing that I have forgotten about some, most of them. But I hope you know that all the things I am thankful for, and will, I have kept as treasures in my heart.

Thank you for your faith in me, your trust, and the love that abounds. Thank you for the prayers, and the kind words and thoughts, and thank you for the messages that made me smile, that me light up, that made me alive again. Thank you for your patience, and the guidance, the wit and the silly conversations via notes, the phone, e-mail, Facebook, and face to face. Thank you for the gentle and sometimes pointed reminders of things that I have missed, lessons I needed to learn, and encouragements that have held me together when I doubted.

Thank you, if you have not heard me say these words. Thank you. I am grateful for humbling me down, with tears, with hurt, with heartache, with disappointment, with loss that I have shared with amazing people, some individuals I only recall through vague initials or shared moments. I can only thank you for your strength, and your determined drive to endure. I can only stand back and bask on how much is out there, how little I give and how much I gain.

Thank you for being the wind beneath my wings. Thank you for laughing along with me. Thank you for taking the time out of your equally busy life to share a simple but heart-filling and heart-warming meal with me as we take this adventure together. Thank you for being there when I needed someone to chat with, even at 1 AM and you have responsibilities later. Thank you for remembering my birthday, and I am sorry if I greeted you late on yours. Just know, I meant my birthday wish with my whole heart.

Thanks for being firm with me, honest, and being a real friend. Thank you for keeping me in check, and prodding me, and saying no when I needed to hear it. Thank you though for reminding me to have fun, to ease my rigidity, and live this one life I have with intent and laughter. Thank you for going to the movies with me, for singing loudly along, and spending time to just hang-out. Thank you for taking pictures of me, with me, of us; proof that yes, those are real moments and not just hazy memories.

Thank you for reconciling with me. That was probably awkward and painful for us but what matters more is us being okay and mending. Thank you because even when I wasn't there for the worst parts of your life you don't hold those against me. I am sorry though, and I hope I will be a better friend, sister, daughter, aunt, grandchild, niece, classmate, and random stranger. Thank you because you inspire me to be better, and more. I love more now, and laugh more, and cry easier, and hug a little bit tighter. Thank you for teaching me how to be.

Thank you for being a mentor, a friend, my mom, my dad, my brother, my sister, my brother in law, my niece, my cousin, my uncle, my aunt, my grandmother, almost in-laws, comrades in school, and all those things in between, like being someone who knew what to do with my dead car batteries, or the person telling me directions after I got lost for the 3,127th time.

Thank you because even though I don't name names, you know I am thanking God for you, because hopefully I have already said those words to you at least once. If not, then I hope you know now.

Thank you God, for all these things, and all those people, and all those experiences that you have brought in my life to make me more, and better. And thank you, for so much more, for the love, there's so much love that I cannot help but smile and breathe deeper.

Thank you is just one tiny part of the huge balled-up tangle that I feel.

With the hope that you love always,
Kat.

sentimentalities for a friend

I hope you take care of your heart
And I don't just mean physically or with what you eat,
Take care that you don't easily fall in love, too fast,
Too many times, that when you one day open your eyes
You'll see how worn out and patched up it is
Only it may be then that you'll blame it on love
When in fact love had nothing to do with any of it
I hope you take care of your heart
That should you fall out of love, you'll do it gracefully
Or as graceful someone could be while breaking hearts
As you side step the wreckage that yours won't be part of.
The moment you have an epiphany that cynicism is better,
It is not, pass, do not collect 200 dollars
Because cynicism will lead to years of bitterness
And a dozen or so of cats and moldy take-away.
I hope you take care of your heart
Guard it with your life so that when you finally receive
Someone else's heart, you'll have yours to give in turn
Baring out your scars and patches, while you map out theirs
Knowing each line of heartache, minding every last burns
Take comfort in the realization that this is a promise
To care for their heart as you've cared for yours
As you've fallen both in and out of love, broken a heart
Yours as much as another's, in both epiphany and stupidity
Since most of the time, one could appear to be the other
Because this promise has everything to do with love, and not just
Falling in to it or being in it, but in taking care of it.
I hope you take care of your heart so that you will know
When someone else starts taking care of it as much and more so than you.

Nothing in common

It surprised me when I checked my inbox and saw an email from you. Of you apologizing of all things for things unsaid. And I wondered who put you up to it. We've drifted, it's been years, we don't talk. And that about sums it up. You've moved on and I am, well, I've learned to just let go. I've stopped chasing after you awhile now because I don't know really, I just got tired of it. Cynical. We have nothing in common anymore. I'm certainly not the one you need in your life, I'm finally learning that I am no longer a little kid and you are moving into a life where you fit in with someone better. Someone who isn't your younger sister. I could try and chase after your coattails as long as I could, but I no longer wish to. I miss you, yeah. I miss getting emails and chats and silly jokes. But I no longer feel compelled to chase after you because I know that even at my pace I'll meet with you at the same stage sooner or later, but with less heartaches, with less bitterness. I've learned that you are your own person and you do not belong to me and I can't keep you with me forever. I've been seeing that we can never own people for our own selves because we can only share bits and pieces of each other. That I can't possess people because the moment I do they become possessions and no longer persons. And I'm sorry if you felt the need to coddle and hold my hand far longer than any other persons would allow just because I refused to let yours go, that I shackled you to my leg only letting you go so far before I dragged you back beside me again. This is me letting you go, unchaining you from my side and stepping back. It's past time that I stopped using my insecurities and my own self-bondage into blackmailing you into staying. Thank you for indulging me and coaxing me along life but I can manage on my own now, but thank you. And I won't begrudge you of running off into the sunset when I myself have realized freedom. I'm happy for you, and I always love you.

Even as I say these words, I give you this promise.

I'm hardly the type of person who plans what to write. I just type or jot down and I don't stop until the words run out. I used to have just notebooks or pieces of paper scribbled with words, and phrases, or paragraphs, and poems. I love words. I think words can have so much impact and they don't often cost a dime (unless of course you go to the theatre, then you pay to see people spouting off words). People make their living off words; journalists, write stark or sensational news; authors, use words to draw us into their worlds; poets, are all a-rhyming; and so many various others, like screenwriters, ghostwriters, and the kind that writes the small print for the credit card companies and the banks, that I'm almost tempted to say, 'Yes, there is an App for that'.

I write on this blog stuff that mostly only make sense to me. Because I like writing for myself. I used to write letters and letters to my friends back in high school. All silly and ridiculous and serious the lot of them. I think words are lovely because they can be loverly, intimate; like they can curl up beside you and stay there for days, decades, and you would be able to still savor them even when they're just imprints on your shoulders. And then there're the kind that make you squirm, flinch away, because they sting even when the echoes are only heard from the depths of your soul. Because words are also unsafe. But there's so many kinds of words. Words of wisdom, words of anger, words of inquiry, words of passion, and words of doubt. Words and words of words.

I especially love the kind that leave you speechless. The kind that makes you pause, and just be there for you to really feel them. The words that touch you, the kind you can't unhear, whether they be right or wrong. Words that are like a balm that soothes. A lullaby that assures. Words that comfort when you need them.

I know she's bone tired; she hasn't been sleeping well. I hear him in the kitchen, making her coffee, tapping off the teaspoon. The weariness is in her voice when she asks quietly, "What would happen to me when you're no longer with me?" I hear him shift, his footfall loud on tiles as he walks to her. "Then I'll come back. I'll come back to you, my love".

Yes. He will. A reason why I love words is the emotions behind them as they are said. Even when you say the wrong ones, you redeem yourself as quickly as you say the right ones. Words of promise, of hope; I think they're the best kinds. Because they're the kinds you share with another, despite and because of how they shift lives. The kind of words that are looked forward to. The kind that means no more words need to be said. I long to say them. Out loud, and not just write them. But I'm saving the best for last, like the closing to a letter.

Sincerely,
Katrina

I think I'm ready now

Warning: This long post is long. If you want a summarized version, skip to the last paragraph down there☟. You have been warned.
April, where hast thou gone? Suddenly, it's May. I believe this is a déjà vu, haven't I written similar phrases previously? I think I've forgotten the last time I've written, the last time I just sat down and felt how my bones ached, the last time I exhaled and breathed in relief, but I remember how I've thought that time keeps flying by me.

In between the months of March and May was April; and she was a tempest. She found me and pressed me down, stared as I shook and cried on my knees. She grabbed my hair and through it all she saw all of me. It's not an easy lesson to learn; humility. It seeks you out and forces all of your being to stay and still, as it teaches you to soften the haughty angle of your nose and push down the tilt of your jaw, even as she gentles the way you grit your teeth.

I remember one Tuesday afternoon, I found myself horrified just standing there in front of my professor as I realized that I was breaking down. I could feel the tears stinging behind my eyes, even as I tried to reassure her and myself that I am fine, I am okay, No, thank you I don't need to talk. My eyes were round and bright I bet with the tears that were threatening to fall so I escaped with a hurried I'll see you next week. My hands were reaching up to my eyes to wipe and wipe and press down any more tears as I quickly rushed to the lobby and out the door. You're crying in public, how quaint.

A few minutes earlier from my bout of hysteria, was me failing a proficiency test by a point 2 percent. Six hours earlier was me receiving a test score of 79, the lowest test score I've had since grade school? When I was rebelling against the unfairness of my private school? I didn't fail that test but I've never gotten a test grade like that in Nursing school until now. I don't know if you can imagine how flummoxed I was about this. A classmate of mine got a 74 and said, "Oh, I missed passing by two points. Eh, it's not like I care". Two different people, two different reactions on the same test. Another who got 78, said, "Aww, I'm glad I passed". At this, my brain goes, there is something wrong with me.

And then I failed my proficiency test, so my brain goes, What just? I don't... What? I failed something and I... I need to fix this. I don't know how. So of course, I get to the parking lot just wanting to go home and kill myself figuratively and literally partially. But I had to face three people who passed the test with no dice in the parking lot so there's me trying to not just burst in undignified tears of defeat while attempting to be self-deprecating. I guess I managed that one okay since I get into my car with no more fussing, and I drove home crying and shouting and squeezing five dollars to a homeless lady's hand during a stop signal.

April sucked so much. It sucked. Because I broke down in public no less, because I'm never half-hearted even in falling down and crashing, and because I wanted to make all these excuses why I spectacularly failed; like how my mom has cancer and it's the awful-est thing ever, or how our class is the hardest and other people are having a hard time too, or how I have sacrificed my life and all that's in it so shouldn't that be enough? I wish I could blame these reasons and say Aha, you are the culprit, but no, sometimes God just wants me to tank multiple tests, break down in public, and cry myself in the freeway, to teach me lessons. Lessons like humility, that high scores come from God, not my brain or my awesomeness; like there's no such thing as perfection as we remain human, because God doesn't want perfection from me, that's not how He wants His glory. He wants effort and faith, and a readiness to serve and do, a heart that just wants to be what God wants it to be, and a spirit that is ready to grow.

The greatest lesson I learned as I cried in my car and paused as I watched a homeless lady walk back and forth the island is that no matter what age you are and no matter where you are in life, you need God. My needs may be small compared to the needs of the lady homeless on the streets but we both need a God that is bigger than both our needs. I cried for three hours more as I sat in the living room with my mom and my dad at home. I told them how stupid I felt, how hollow and unhappy I felt, how alone and bitter I felt about my life, nursing school, and the stuff in between. I've always handled things on my own until I couldn't anymore and they were there to sit with me and listen, and point out things I've only started to see in myself, and tell me that I'm not stupid, and I can change the things I feel unhappy and bitter about so I can be fulfilled and happy.

If I could only thank God for two things, it would be my parents, and my family. They were there with me as I picked at my old wounds and dug through layers and layers of my baggage. It wasn't easy to admit that I had bound myself up so that I was only to be perfect and happy in solitude; that I had imprisoned my imagination and my will so that I could be more like something I thought was what I should be. It hurt to be unraveled and broken, to spew out things that hurt and are hurtful, to find out how wrong I have been all these years, and how tightly bound and tethered I was by me. There is a relief in the peace that I am being re-molded and that I am safe in His hands. I think that even when April sucked, it didn't turn out all bad since hey, I get another year in life and I finished level two of nursing. Three more to go, an NCLEX, and a job interview, and I think I'll be okay. By God's grace. Amazingly, I don't think I'd trade this April for any other ones I've had.

I know, I know this is TL;DR (too long; didn't read), pardon me, I missed staying up late to just blog and read, and cruise the internet. The gist of my long narrative was the plight that was my April and how suck-y it was but I celebrated my twenty-first birthday with my loved ones and all is well, almost. That's it in a nutshell. Until next time, my lovelies, I hope you had a much more enjoyable April than I did. Or not, you can just be jealous of my super eventful and dramatic one! So, it's your turn to tell me how your April went? Or actually, the last four months that have gone by. : )

A side effect from caring

There's been two types of adjectives that have been predominantly applied to me when I was growing up: one being aloof; the other being nice. Many people who meet me at first confide to me later on that they thought I was snobbish and reserved. I can honestly say that when I don't smile, I don't look very friendly; but really who does? When they get to know me better, that is when people start applying the term nice. They figure out that I don't actually bite people nor do I bide my time thinking ill of them.

Honestly, they're not too far when they call me both aloof and nice. I know for a fact that I can be not nice, that I can be this person who does not care. I have seen myself stare blankly as someone cried in front of me. I have rolled my eyes and mocked someone's sob story. I should empathize but no, I just don't care sometimes. But then again, a lot of people tell me their problems and I listen, and I comfort, and I help. I have hugged someone as they cried their eyes out, tucked someone in bed as they felt utter misery, and helped someone to their feet as they wished to try again. I have cried with people and cried for people with the same eyes that mocked and stared.

Anyone has a propensity to choose apathy over niceness any day of the week, and vice versa. Lately though, I've been more apt to care. I've cringed over hateful words, my heart clenches as I hear contempt in people's voices, and I have stilled in horror as people choose to stop caring. I find myself horrified at the thought of becoming this crybaby who is affected by every little sign of discord. Apathy is so much more easier a mask. No tears, no cooing or false sympathies. No drama. Such is a life I want. No complications. But caring has this way of insinuating itself between the cracks and insisting that it matters.

And it does, I suppose. It does when it's about my family, and the people I love, and then it starts extending to the people I just met, and to the people I have yet to learn about. And I get lost. My world that consists of me and a handful of people are expanding to let more in. And it terrifies me to care about all these other people when I hardly know how to care for all of me. I know that no matter how much I care for people, it cannot change the world. Caring cannot change someone's opinion, or create more food, or reduce global warming, or grow back someone's hair.

But one of the most annoying things that happens when a person cares is the persistent desire to hope. That tomorrow everything will be better, that life will be easier, that there's more to come. I care because I want to love with something bigger than my body, more than my cells can hold, greater than my mind can dream of. There's only one of me but I can have a love that renews more than what is possible, more than what is expected of me, and more than what I expect of myself.

To Darla, I love you. A lot. I first loved you with a selfish reason of not wanting to let you go. But I know that I never will; that some special guy can sweep you off your feet and take you away with him, but I'll hold you forever in my heart. I love you not because you are my sister. I love you because of your own person. You're not all perfect, and neither am I. You're not all squishy and huggable, but the parts of you that are, are more than enough to love everyone else that you wish to.

To Kuya, I love you. I've admired you before I loved you. And I hated you before I learned how to love you. But in the end, I love you, and that's mostly what matters. The rest of the thing that matters is the fact that you will always be the person who riles me up, makes me mad as spit, and then pets me to calm me down. We're complicated. You're the older brother who never got a manual on how to figure out a younger sibling. And I'm the younger sibling who never got the memo on playing nice. All in all, we're a pair. But seeing you grow up, I know that you'll even make a greater pair that special girl who'll keep you on your toes and make you laugh the loudest and the longest. Don't ever change.

To Sister. You're my greatest friend. And I don't ever need to tell you what's what for you to figure out how I feel. There's many reasons why I looked up to you when I was growing up. And there were many reasons why I desperately wanted to hold on to us. But I've learned that it's not about letting go, because neither you nor I have. It's about extending the reigns to someone else until we come full circle and our world becomes smaller. You are grace and strength and air. And you have all of yourself to offer. I thank you for that.

To Momi. Thank you. Without you, I wouldn't be. I want you to know that I haven't always understood you and I haven't always wanted to understand you. But now I do. You're so much more than what other people see in you. You're so much more than what other people will think of you. Your family, they are only one part of you. They are not you. I hope you understand that your strength is one thing that makes you stand apart from others, but one thing else is your freedom. You know where your freedom lies, and I hope that later you'll find comfort in knowing that your love hasn't been in vain. And it hasn't. Those seeds you've sown that didn't seem to grow, they're still budding. And so are you.

To Papa. Papa, I love you. For every hug that you've given me, I repay you three-fold. For every prayer that you've said for me, I offer God five more. For every laughter and tears of joy, I ask Him for a thousand more. And for every lesson you've taught me, I will honor them all. For every fear and anger that you've felt for me, I say an assurance. And for every word of discipline and pat of my hair as I cried, I bow my head in humility. And for that day when you put my hands together as I accepted God, I put my hands together as I thank the one who did the same for you. Thank you, Papa.

To Kuya Ancho, I bless you as your sister and as my brother. There's many things that could have gone wrong between your meeting my sister and your permanence with us. But the years have passed by more than a decade now and still your roots have dug in and stayed entwined with ours. You're a tree of such patience and of such passion, and you've spent and shared so much of both not only with Manang but with us. Thank you for showing us the dazzle of vibrant colors. You've brought so much to us and we haven't caught up to yet.

To Baba. Babalove. You're still my sweet. You've grown like a rose, like a mountain. You're both spring and lightning. I missed so much of your growing up but I don't regret that much. Because you have such great parents and people who love around you. And they all love you. I miss hugging you and making you laugh with silly jokes and fixing your hair because it always needs fixing. I miss how your eyes twinkle and how your lips quirk in a reluctant smile, then a full fledged laugh, even as you try to knit your eyebrows together and look stern. I miss your curiosity and your ability to go on for days and days, and days like a whirlwind that plays with the leaves and then I miss how you simply know confidently how to be. I miss many things. But I miss the fun that we create together. Always have fun, Ba. All the time. Remember that having fun is a choice too.

I can make more lists of these. I can write down more love for all the world to see. I can do all these and still have love to spare. But right now, this is enough. Because these are the words that I've held closed in my heart for so long and today, I set them free. If you read this then you know that I love you, always will, even when I'm no longer here to agree. Even when it's not from my lips that you hear it. Even when it hurts more said out loud than whispered quietly in the back of your mind. Even then. Because love like this isn't the kind that goes away. This stains and holds deeper when you rub at it. It holds your hand tightly in the crowds, and pokes you on the sides 'til you frown, and it keeps at you until you bat it with your hands. My love is annoying, let's just say that. But that's because it's the kind that is persistently hopeful that when you wake up tomorrow, it's to a lighter and better day.

They told us not to cry

My best friend sent me an instant message asking if I was there. I replied and received her response that said her grandfather just passed away. He never woke up. Oh.

I gave my condolences and said that I was sorry. And I was. I was sorry for the fact that she wasn't able to say goodbye. I knew how hard it was for her to receive a call or a text message letting her know that she no longer had a grandfather. I knew how it felt when you hear family cry over the phone. It's unimaginable. It's painful to hear heartbreak over the line.

She asked me if I knew how much he meant to her. That he was the father she had in her life. And that she was so sad. I told her I did. That I knew how much she loved him and how much he loved her. I told her that I understood how much it hurts that she was unable to say goodbye to him. But I knew that he would never begrudge her her feelings. That he would not allow her to pretend that she was okay, that it was okay, that it didn't hurt. I told her that it was okay to cry.

She told me she again that she was so sad. She told me of her plan to go home to the province, that she asked for a leave. I wished her a safe trip. I said that I would pray for her and her family. I asked her to give my condolences to her grandmother.

I was slightly uncomfortable when I was chatting with her, honestly. I knew she was crying when she was typing since she misspelled every now and then. That was the first time that I ever told someone that it was okay to cry. And even as I expected her to cry, I was unsure whether I was actually comforting her correctly. No one tells you as you grow up, "this is how you comfort someone, especially when they lose their grandfather, specifically when you're chatting with them continents away."

The twenty-first century has seen evolution and devolution, raced through inventions and application of laws and logic. Human socialization is growing even as you read this through interactive networks but there is a growing chasm in human connection and community. We don't hesitate to "add" someone, a friend, an aunt, a cousin twice removed, or the crazy uncle no one talks about on our page. But there is a definite pause when asked who lives three doors across your house or if you actually acknowledged that small smile-nod Mr. Smith gave you earlier or you either stared between his brows and gave your own smile-nod as you ducked away.

I think people are becoming socially awkward. Even as I admit that no one is taught the art of comforting and say that it comes naturally, I find that I am at a loss as to how I should break that silence of grief. That I don't say or not say something and then wince as I see them shirk further away. Some might say that just being there counts as an act of comfort. I suppose. But then my being continents away does pose some trouble. I don't want to make an ass of myself as I type an instant message.

All I could tell my best friend was from my own experience. She told me again that it hurt so much. And I replied that it would get worse. That it would hurt as she would remember how he looked, his favorite breakfast, how he smiled when she would greet him as she came home. That we lose parts of ourselves when a person we love passes away. I couldn't bear to tell her that sometimes we would forget how their voice sounded like, or whether they ever wore this shirt. The simple details would fade from our minds even as we desperately try to hold on to as much as we could.

I couldn't tell her that it would ease in time. That it would hurt less. That she would be able to breathe easier. And that she could smile at the thought of him in time and not be guilty that she was still alive. That it would be okay not to cry. But maybe I don't have to. Maybe she'll figure it out herself.

The great thing about human beings is our capacity for change, our capacity to adapt, our capacity to survive. And the great thing about us is that we don't have to be told how to comfort someone; that even as we awkwardly pat someone on the back, it comes naturally. I think it is great to be a human being. That's the beauty of humanity, we are always being. Not becoming, or doing, but being.

It's Menopause!

So what do you do when you have the weekend ahead of you? Redecorate your house, of course. At least according to my mom, that's what's supposed to be done. So instead of finishing my observation project for my World Religions class and my Sustainable Living outline for Philosophy, I spent the weekend general cleaning and rearranging the furniture. Snippets of conversation included and was not limited to:

"It's okay, Pa. It's just menopause. She'll get over it."
"No. The furniture do not want to be rearranged. They are happy where they are right now."
"It's okay, Momi. We understand. Don't feel bad. As long as you're happy, we're unhappy." (That was after my dad got his toe bloody due to the computer table).
"You, why you torture me so?"
"I could be typing!!"
"This is abuse."
"I suggest you just quit your job and become an interior decorator. That way you can satisfy this obsession of yours."
"No, thank you." (After being asked/told if we should fix my room now).
"Go away, Momi. I'll pencil you in instead."
"I could be typing!!"
"You lied to me! You said that we wouldn't be moving any more furniture!" (After a long debate on how she wanted to switch the coffee tables).
"That's discrimination. You're making it insecure. You're making it feel fat." (My reply after my mom said that the coffee table is too long and doesn't match the formal living room).
"I could be typing!!"

Momi: "Now, doesn't that look nice?"
Kat: /Eye twitch/ Glare.

The only winning thing about the events was getting a new red comforter and pillow cases with white floral designs and new curtains from IKEA. And that was a trick too. I wanted art materials for my birthday, and now I get a makeover for my room and backache instead. I'm too young for this. I will get a red bookcase for my room though, so that will be great. All's fair with moms and menopause.

Always the Smart Ones

I bet her eyes widened as her brain digested what she just heard. I can imagine how they would hold that involuntary response for a second, and then she would blink. But her mouth would be slightly opened as she would form the words, "What? What happened?"

I asked her how she felt. Sad. Yes, I was too. But then she says, "So, nice weather we're having." And all I could do was laugh while we proceeded making small talk to hastily change the subject. There we were on the phone discussing cows on the freeway, brunch, how Twilight sucks, and the distinction between cliff diving and cliff jumping. All the while in the backs of our mind contemplating how it isn't really funny, and we shouldn't really be laughing. It was inappropriate after all.

"We need to talk. I need to talk to you," was what my Mom first said when she opened their bedroom door. And I could tell it was going to be a serious discussion. And in a habitual childhood-borne reflex, I started thinking of what I could have possibly done wrong in the past couple of days, and then weeks, that warranted that serious tone of voice, and that grave facial expression.

My mom started with chitchat. She explained why she didn't think visiting my cousins would be a good choice, because she couldn't, no time, and all that. And then she explained why she wouldn't agree to my desire of buying a smaller cupcake pan, because it wouldn't be fair for everyone. I understood, I explained that I figured that out. It's fine, I'll get over it. "It just makes me feel bad when you make that face, I feel like it's my fault." It's not, Mom, it's normal that I'll be sad. But I get over it.

What is this about? I was asking mentally because we don't normally do this, we do, but not over trivial matters of vacation or cupcake pans. So I asked, "Is that all?" And not surprisingly the answer is No. The next thing she tells me makes me frown, raise my eyebrow, take a breath, and laugh. Maybe that was inappropriate as well. But I did not mean to be disrespectful in light of having someone I loved try to cheat life and fail.

It made me both mad and sad that she did that. I was mad at myself because she felt she couldn't approach me at any time. I was mad that she bottled it all up and used a bottle to end it all as well. I was sad because she's only fourteen, and in the two years I've been with her I didn't see it coming. Or maybe I did and it pisses me off because I chose not to see it. I was sad because it shouldn't have come down to that and she shouldn't have felt the need to do that.

What do I tell her? Do I ask her why? Do I pretend that it's okay and say everything will be fine? Do I tell her honestly that what she did was crap and that she should have thought of her family? Of her younger siblings who looked up to her? I could say that the worst thing I've heard is someone saying they're giving up on life. It makes me feel like there's nothing worthy enough for you to stick around here until the end. It makes me feel so angry because there are hundreds and thousands of babies being born everyday that don't even survive to take their first breath. And it makes me sad because no one should choose that option ever.

We all have our pain, we're all broken, and we're all human. And if you think that life sucks, then welcome to the real world. Because in this world your younger sisters will be affected and scarred by that all their life. The youngest might not even know what happened but your younger sister, well, you probably broke her heart. This might sound spiteful, it might offend you, that I'm ranting at you when you're in a frail and delicate situation. But you should at least think about the fact that I care enough to be angry, I care enough to be mad at you. You have so much going for you, you're smart, you have a great sense of humor, you're highly intelligent, you have a great family, and you don't have body odor. I hope you realize that life doesn't have to be perfect for you to be happy. Life is pain, but it is a gift. Life is a choice and in all things you have a choice. The only thing you don't have a choice over is death. But when the time comes for that, I hope you can honestly say you don't have regrets on how you lived.

Touchdown to Championship

We had a home game today for the Arizona Cardinals against the Philadelphia Eagles. Of course, I rooted for the Cardinals!! They're treated so much like the underdogs since, well, they're not that much of a threat before. But they proved themselves today, winning against the Eagles 32 to 25. It was insane how they led the first two quarters, lost the third quarter when the Eagles caught up (13-0), but pushed forward in the last quarter after a fumble. Cardinals win!!! Woot! They're going to Super Bowl 43!!! This is the first time in the history of the Cardinals franchise. Go AZ! I'm so excited :)

We're made of sterner stuff.

I know how belated this new year message is, but I hope that everyone is starting their new year right. Whether you have a resolution or not, or whether you do have a resolution and forgot already, I hope your year is still starting out better than last year.

My family's Christmas and New Year's celebration was quieter this year. Not because of the recession or because their were fewer relatives here in Arizona. I think it's because this year it wasn't because of the presents we gave and received, but because of the blessings we've received the previous year.

The previous year, I had an uncle who was diagnosed with liver cancer during the Christmas of 2007. Despite the prognosis that he only had six months left and despite how the tumor has progressed to his lungs, he is still with us this year. In 2008, I had an aunt who suffered a stroke, but despite the paralysis on some of her body, or how she can't use her hands, or her feet, or speak 'normally,' she is alive and undergoing rehabilitation currently. My sister's mother in law, was diagnosed with cancer in the colon. But with successful surgery, she is still able to enjoy her children and grandchildren. We have undergone a tumultuous year filled with people we love experiencing pain and disease, siblings going through demanding situations, and then there is the uncertainty of finances and future, and the nightmare of how everything is going wrong.

It may seem to us that there is no hope, that nothing else matters, that this is it. But life is suffered by everyone. No matter how it feels and seems that you're alone in your pain, and that no one else in the world understands what you're going through, despite breaking down in defeat and utter desperation, it's not the end, not yet. It's not through if you don't give up. Everyone of us has our crappy days, when all our demons rush in to devour us, when everything we do is wrong. It's okay to angst, and cry, and break down. But afterwards, get up, dry your face, and take a big breath. Exhale.

I'm not trying to belittle the problems, or the feelings of those who are facing problems. No, all I'm trying to say is, you're not alone, that no matter how life sucks for you, you are stronger, and braver, and smarter, but you'll never know unless you try and do something. I know that despite how I angst and huff and puff over my studies or my worries, as long as I don't give up, I'll be fine. There's nothing wrong with psyching your self up, there's nothing wrong in hoping for the better if hope is all you have left in your pockets. Hope is infectious.

If all else fails, if you only remember one thing from this post, I hope it's this: You can't get everything right. But you can't get everything wrong.

It's okay to make mistakes. Mistakes, problems, angst, and incurable diseases, are part of our lives that reveal who we truly are, what we're capable of, and what we're shaping to become. There's no shame in breaking down, but there is strength in getting up, brushing your knees, and moving forward.

something there that wasn't there before

I still remember the first time I saw Beauty and the Beast. It was movie night with my family; I was young and happily tomboyish. We watched it on the VCR (completely ancient now) and that was when I realized that despite my tomboyish attitude I was a romantic.

I reacted awed at Belle, wanting to have my own adventure too; equally disgusted with Gaston, and his drunkard minion. And then there was the Beast. The Beast was one part daunting and another part amazing. Daunting in the sense that he was a beast, easily could maul you apart, amazing in the part that he was human underneath all the fur.

What made me discover my being a romantic was not their love triangle. It certainly wasn't the part where Gaston proposed to, well, himself. Nor was it the part when Beast gets rid of Gaston once and for all. I cheered at that part though. But it was the part when Beast surprised Belle with a library. (A library, you say?)

Yes, a library. What's so romantic about books? It wasn't about the books. When Beast gave Belle a library it was like giving Belle love. Belle loved books. Her love for books was greater than the ridicule she faced daily from the villagers who thought she was different from them. Beast gave her the library because it would make Belle happy. I think loving is like that. It's giving or doing something for a person knowing that he or she would be happy about it, or that that person would love it. I'm not saying that we should go and give the people we love a library (thank you, though, if you give me one) but we should desire to make that person happy. Just go and love the person.

I'm equating the act of Beast giving Belle a library with love. Ridiculous? Maybe. But I'm a romantic remember? So in the meantime, while I sit here and listen to the soundtrack, I'll wait for my own library.

the fasten seatbelt sign is on

10 and 9. Those are the number of times we've moved houses and the times I've moved schools, respectively. The number of times I've been on airplanes I've lost count, as well as the number of times I've had to introduce myself to a new crowd. My life has been full of introductions. A new introduction presented itself when Princess called and said she was leaving for Canada.

"You're leaving me?" were the first words I blurted out. I didn't really know what to say. When I was going to the US, I was totally depressed. I wasn't excited about new life, starting over, yadda yadda. No. What I wanted was to stay. What I was wanted was to keep my life the way it was and be happy. What I wanted was to never move again, end of story. Except it was never the end of any story and I had to start over again in a foreign place. And now that Princess is moving, I feel for her. I feel sad that she's not going to be able to see her friends when she wants to as she normally does. I feel sad that she's not going to be able to just book a flight and relax in Boracay. I feel sad that she's going to miss out on our niece's life. I feel sad that she won't be able to just take a jeep to the mall and window shop all she likes. And most of all I feel sad that nothing is going to be the same anymore.

Jokes that made you laugh before would make you cry on the spot. Clothes that were comfortable before would make you feel alien and naked. Foods that used to keep you company would make you feel homesick and alone. Nothing is familiar when you leave familiarity with your friends and toys. I wish I could say that it's going to be better, that sooner or later you'll be fine and happy again. It does in some ways. But there's a void that you avoid because that's where everything you were and had is.

Moving is a trying experience. It has an emotional roller coaster mandatory for everyone. But moving is moving forward. Where your past and future become your present. Where every thing is new and exciting. I'm blessed that with every move my family is still there, a room away, a phone call away, an email away, a video chat away, a prayer away. My bestfriend once said that even though we never see each other we are still under the same blue sky. As cliched as that sounds, I find comfort in the fact that we are connected by God's love, under the same blue sky.

Princess, I know you're going to okay. Just think of the place you're going to as a bigger Cebu. You're going to be just fine.

Lessons from our backyard

For the past six weeks my Dad has been with us here in Arizona. In the last couple of years, six weeks is not the longest we have been together, but six weeks weighs more than a year's worth of Skype video chats, sparse cellphone conversations, and at most, bi-weekly emails. I have never thought about the strangeness of this situation a lot. Since it's not like I think it is strange. Not seeing or talking or hearing from my Dad daily is as normal as my hair tangling up like a wretched hairball. Both are certainly unappealing, though hairballs are generally more disgusting. By unappealing, I mean that daughters usually want to know how their father is faring and vice versa. In my case, I DO want to know how my father is faring but again, in my case, that's just not always been possible. There was that one simple hang up with us not being in the same house, or even in the same continent. Good news, we're in the same planet.

I have (as you mostly are all probably aware) always been a daddy's girl. My mom and I are close but my dad and I just mesh better. As cliched as being a daddy's girl is, I think it's enjoyable. Most of the time, anyway. My dad is a military man, a math man, a straight forward and loyal man, a Bible man, a generous man, a well respected man. Not in that exact order but he is certainly the kind of guy you want with you when your car breaks down or when you are lost in this crazy Twilight Zone kind of place. Being with him again has reminded me and shown me that as smart mouthed and sarcastic I am most of the time, I still need my dad in my life. Especially since I usually keep everything to myself to the point of bursting my figurative innards.

Ever since I can remember I have always tagged along with my dad. Driving with him to Manila or taking the bus back to the Farm, I have always been by his side. Most of our conversations were conducted on the move or during nap time when I was trying to make him sleep so I could play. One time when I was four and my brother would not let me join him and his friends play, I went to my parents' room and sat beside my dad. I was clearly sulking so my dad asked me what happened. And I just told him, "I wish I was born a guy, then I could do whatever I wanted." My dad just laughed at that and replied, "Not every thing's going to be okay if you were a guy. That's why God didn't make you that way." I just humphed and stayed quiet. When I was five, I told him I wanted to be an assassin when I grew up. My eldest sister looked at me then at my dad when he calmly said, "That's not really an easy profession, why don't you choose something else?" My sister wholeheartedly agreed with him.

There were many instances of me saying some random thing to him and he would respond in a straight forward manner, despite the amusement or astonishment to my sentiments. I have always felt that he was not talking to me as a child but as a person. Once, we were parked somewhere and just sat there watching jeepneys when I noticed the signs painted on the sides of the jeeps. I asked him, "So where is 'Vice Versa' located in Cebu?" He was silent for a couple of seconds before responding, "Vice Versa?" I nodded as he started saying, "It means it also goes the other way around. It's not a place in Cebu." And with that, I sat silently, and we burst out laughing. There goes my English classes.

The past six weeks, he's been taking care of our backyard. My dad's first love is planting, and plants love him too. So my mom has given him the task of planting new plants and flowers in place of the ones that have succumbed to the desert heat. The plants which have been withering before are now basking on growth since my dad started caring for them. Another project he was tasked to do was to replant the uprooted tree on my aunt's backyard. He took me there one afternoon with his shovel, his ropes, a couple of stakes, and my car's jack. All the while I was angsting over what my mom told me just hours ago. He did all the talking while tying up the tree, talking about his childhood and how my grandfather gave him a job in the farm. I sat on the loose rocks and listened to him talk of responsibility and the hardship of sacrifice. In the end, we prayed and he asked me if I was hurt by what my mom said. I tried explaining but all he wanted was a Yes or No answer. I said yes, and he replied, "Ok. It's okay to tell her you were hurt."

I've learned a lot from my dad, and I'm still learning. I've learned that it's okay to say what you feel, and that you should. I learned that driving a car should only be done when you are sure of what you're doing. I've learned that math will not eat you alive, and that anything can be learned if you are willing to. I've learned how to really plant a flower and not see it die in two days. I've learned how to cement bricks, the difference between cementing and plastering, and that if you get cement on your hair you can wash it off as long as it hasn't hardened yet. I've learned that gardening and watering plants are relaxing and enjoyable work. I've learned that taking a break can be relaxing and enjoyable too, especially after you really worked hard.

My dad is a great influence in my life, and by great I mean in intensity and ability. I went back to Philippines one time to figure out if I should take Nursing or not. My mom wanted me to, of course, but she wanted me to decide. My dad gave me a verse in Psalm and I decided on Nursing. "Though my father and mother forsake me, the Lord will receive me." Despite the fact that Art was my first love, I decided on taking a risk with Nursing because of my dad's confidence and support in me. And in times when I doubt myself for my choice, I remember that verse and feel better again.

I had a conversation on the phone once with my dad where he was asking me if I missed him. I thought about it for a second before I answered, "No." He was clearly taken aback by that and replied in a hurt voice, "Oh, why don't you miss me? Why did you answer no?" I just said, "Well I don't miss you right now. And you told me not to lie." My mom had to explain to him later that I was just an abnormal kid and did not think normally. The truth is I miss him everyday. But I just don't think of him so I don't miss him so I don't think I miss him. It's not logical but that's just the way I cope with not seeing my family. For me it's not absence making a heart fonder, but out of sight, out of mind. But when I do say I miss someone, I really do miss them. Cross my heart.

So when my dad goes to San Francisco tomorrow, I may not get to say goodby to him at the airport. Or I may forget to email him in a week. But I think it's safe to say that I will miss him even as I bury myself on schoolwork and reading. Lessons from our backyard go from mundane to enlightening, from poignant to silly, and from father to daughter but the answer to "Do you miss me?" will always be "Yes," from now to forever.

the grass is greener

I am currently still in Edmonton, Alberta. It's almost three weeks now that I've been here to attend my cousin's wedding and to visit the Queen. Well, my cousins in fact, but this side of the family is like royalty after all. Not that my mother's side of the family isn't descended from Dons and Doῆas. But my father's side is too noble and prideful to be considered anything less than royalty. I guess I just come from a family of extremes. And coming here to Edmonton gave me a chance to experience another side of my family from a different angle, perspective. Same difference.

I know that when one travels to a place for the first time, Traveler must mention, describe, and excite people of what the place looks like, of the different people encountered, of the meals one had eaten or had not eaten but wished they did, and of the activities one had done and wish to repeat, or not. As for myself, all I can say is I like Edmonton. If you have money and time, come here and enjoy. Done. I have done my touristly duty and wish to go on to my true purpose of sharing more stuff about my royalty family that may or may not mean anything to you. Shush, I just need to write. So, on to my family.

Specifically, I am writing about my dad's side of the family. The side that lives here in Edmonton. As I wrote earlier, I come from a family of extremes. And this extreme extends to the fact that my dad is my uncle's brother. Some of you are going, "Duh." What I mean is the fact that they are related translates to the fact that they not only share or have the same temperemental, stubborn disposition and discipline, but they also share the noble qualities consisting of honesty, generosity, caring, loving, and quirky sense of humor. These characters are trademarked in each sibling coming from my dad's side of the family. And my cousins and I had the great time of discovering these similarities in our parents. Stories upon stories brought out the common bond that is our parents, and we drew closer together as we cast our collection of memories and shared them as one. It makes me feel warm and fuzzy, and giddy, I admit. But I rejoice in being reunited with cousins and titos and titas that I have been too young to remember or been to apart from.

It is true that I have been too apart from the royalty. E-mails and rare phone calls are the only correspondence that have kept us from completely being out of each other's lives. We all have been moving from one area to another, one town or country away. Moving is normal for us; it is like a complicated dance, to and fro, to and fro. Packing and putting away is part of the lifestyle, yet in all the complications we have always belonged where ever we were.

I came to Edmonton just expecting cooler weather and living in my Tito Joy and Tita Lulu's house. Yes, both are what I expected. However, living with them for two weeks and a half has shown me more than I was expecting. I saw that the grass is greener here. Their family see each other almost daily, they just live minutes aways from each other, they eat out all the time, and they come and go as they please. They're not a perfect family by any means, no one has that. But perfect is not what I have been wanting since I was a child. What I wanted was a family like theirs, a family living close to each other. As I wrote, I come from a family of extremes. And as their family live minutes away from each other, mine live continents apart from each other. Well, before it was just islands apart. Funny.

I do find it funny. Funny in the ironic kind of way. Although, I also find it funny that despite the fact that I feel that I should be jealous, I am not. Of course, it makes me a bit sad to see how it could have been with my family. I can see driving to visit Sister's place and spending time with my brother in law and my niece. Or going to Princess' apartment and just kill time with her. Or goof around with my brother later while my dad and mom call and ask what time I'll go home for dinner. It makes me sad because I know that although the grass is greener this side of the family, I just sigh and move on because I also know that this isn't my grass. My grass doesn't exist since what I have is desert sand and all that grow in it are tough weeds that look pretty and flowers that struggle to survive the day's heat.

My visit in Edmonton humbled me. I can't have everything in life and what I have is enough. What's more important than having my family close by is having a close family intact. I wouldn't trade my royalty family for any green grass, beanstalk, or ducks that lay golden eggs in the world.

beasts of dysfunction

I'm your typical good girl. The funny, quirky, nerdy, goody two shoes. Though with a good deal of sarcasm and fondness for being random. I obsess about getting the grade for my classes though I'm a bit lazy to study. I rarely get scolded by my parents. I'm too boring socially for them to worry about me getting wasted or trying out meth or some other high inducing drug. I'm too introverted to be seduced by going out with classmates I barely know and hanging out. I can hear you saying "You need a life." Hehe, not really. I like how I am and quite comfortable with my life. So what's the point then? You can already see that this is going to turn into a big, raging, hormonal rant, don't you?

No matter how perfect I desire to be I cannot ignore that I am still a beast of dysfunction. This is not a 'pity me' statement. Since it is the truth, after all. I believe that no one is perfect, not one can be. Despite push or pull, whether you devote your life to be one, perfection is just elusive that way. What I wish though is the freedom from being expected perfect. Perfection is not demanded but it is quite implied. Like a humongous dragon breathing down your neck, filling your lungs with smoke with your every inhale and possibly a crunchy meal next. I know that a lot is expected of me and my knowledge of that just annoys me.

I am the youngest child and youngest daughter in our family. Yes, those two qualifications are important. Growing up, my older sisters were already in college while I was still in grade school. I rarely saw them but I rarely failed to hear tales of their flaws or at least what grave mistakes merited a public rant from my parents. Disappointment laced their voices when they would share what my sisters did wrong. And I guess that sticks to a kid, it's one of those childhood sentiments that clung to you. I was always told, "Wag mong gayahin mga manang mo." (Don't be like your sisters). And my mind asked what exactly were my sisters? One married too early, and another didn't finish college but worked instead. I do not fault them for doing what they did. I saw them as independent people who made their own choices. I admit I was angry at my parents too, saying we were Christians but driving their children away. It did not make sense why we were that way.

I remember once when my brother and mother had a fight they both cried. I remember watching TV and having my back to them so they did not see tears on my face. My brother did not want dinner so I went to his room and lain their beside him. I did not have to look at him to know that he was crying. He was angry and hurt that they were thinking him ungrateful. He said that he did his best and he graduated from the academy for them. I did not say anything and just asked if he was going to eat. Appeasing him was unlike me when I did not want to choose sides. I love my parents and my brother, they were family. And family to me should not take sides.

I was not like my sisters, I grew up dependent on my parents. I still have the childish habit of holding on to my mom's shirt tail like a child would (although he being annoyed by it is a bonus). My father frowns when I hesitate to talk to other people as I try to shrink into myself. I believed my self to be not smart like my sisters, not talented enough, not pretty enough, not good enough. I am not like my brother, I do not have ambition. I do not have goals for my self. I do not have the initiative to do what I need to do. By being like them would I fail my parents too? By being myself would I remain mediocre?

I no longer wanted to be a child. When I was a child I was powerless, unable to voice my opinions. I experienced this when my mother told my sister to pack her things and leave our house. She was being sent away. I remembered following her to the room we shared and asking her if it was my fault she was being sent away. I told her that I would behave myself and not fight with her for the remote control if she did not leave. But she just shook her head and answered that no, it was not me but she had to leave. It was then I accepted that I could not remain a child anymore. Being a child was naive and pathetic so I grew up.

I cannot ignore the flaws and scars my family have. I tell my sister that my parents are different from their parents. They can only stand being with them for three days and no more. My parents when with my siblings turn into harsh critics which embarrasses me. This blog is not one sided, my parents are not the only ones in the wrong. A relationship is a two way street, they say. I believe that. I try and tell myself that if we weren't so self-absorbed then perhaps we could all reconcile without having to resort into having a three day countdown. Sometimes I am in the receiving end of my parent's harsh words and I admit that it still makes me feel small and weak. Whoever said words could not never harm should rot in a pit of verbal massacre. But I do not dwell in them anymore, especially when I did do something wrong. It's just so easy to cling to being hurt and angry. That just tires me out.

I will just continue to be myself, borrowing backbone from my sisters and ambition from my brother, and advice from my parents. Maybe by being me, I'll be free from being perfect. And that way I will be happy.

to hear you say that

there's so many things i want to say. the things that i keep inside and exchange a smile instead. it's funny how as an introvert i rarely say what i want to. it annoys my sisters, or rather bothers them, i should say. when they ask me what i want, without fail i answer "just choose what you want, it's fine by me." and they ask me again what i want, i reply minutes (eternities) later. i know how to choose, i just don't choose for myself. i don't really blame anyone for that. it's my flaw that i nourished growing up. i let other people take away my power of choice. what i eat, when i eat, which dress i buy, which shoe i wear, what class i take, when i take the class, which movie to watch, and so on. you may say, but kat those are such small decisions, they don't really matter. indeed, but they matter to me.

i want to change. i don't want to rely on other people to live my life for me. i don't like living that way. it isn't because of me wanting control. it's just me wanting to be free of other people controlling me. i know that they mean well, and i know they want what's best for me but that can only go so far. if i let other people choose how i live my life, i might as well give them my life to do away with it. i am not rebelling. that's absurd. i just want to make my own choices. i just want to be able to make my own mistakes and know that they're still proud of me. not that i made a mistake but because i am my own person.

my dad wrote me an email a while ago which made me cry for some reason. he said he was proud of me for getting the grade i wanted in my classes and for learning a lot the past semester. why cry? i guess because it meant a lot to me. i made a choice the last semester to not give up until i finished. usually i'd just say i don't care anymore, que sera, sera. but this time, i decided to push myself more and refuse to back down. it was a great feeling when i finally got the grade i worked so much for. i felt so accomplished. and it made me happy that i made my parents happy. to hear them say that i did great was momentous. hopefully, it will remind me that i have the power to choose. to choose whether i want to be great or not. or whether i eat that chocolate or not. whatever.

10 years later

I was 8 when my parents sat my brother and I down to talk. It was somber that night in our small living room in Cebu. My brother and I were thinking to ourselves what the talk would be about, did we goof up that day? But no, it was about our eldest sister. She was going to get married. We youngsters stared at my dad like he spouted some nonsense and was just kidding. He wasn't. And the next days were a blur of taking a flight to Manila and staying near my aunt's place.

I realize now that even then that was an alien occurrence. Marriage was usually a happy, joyous occasion with a big flourish preparation and an even grander celebration. But my sister's wedding did not happen that way. I remember being held by my dad as we sat on my aunt's couch. I remember crying, and stomping my feet. I remember being heartbroken and inconsolable. I was being a child who wasn't getting what she wanted. And what I wanted was keeping my sister in our family. I wanted her to remain ours.

I smile now when I recall hating my brother in law even before he was officially and legally my brother in law. I remember being in the farm with him and playing Mortal Kombat and Mario with him and my brother. All the while I was wishing and cursing him away from my family. It was childish and petty but it was me experiencing my world shift and tilt off course. But I remember him smiling at me as if knowing and understanding how I felt towards him.

In the end, I was dressed in a simple white gown befitting a sole flower girl. I remember holding a basket full of petals and scattering them on the carpet as I walked by. I remember sitting in front and frowning as my younger cousin found it amusing that I was in a dress. I continued frowning as I felt itchy in my dress and it turned into glaring as I felt my heart stop and pound at the same time. I felt tears well up in my eyes as I clenched my teeth in despair.

In front of the pastor was my sister on her wedding gown and her husband to be standing side by side. I remember looking on but soon averting my eyes so they wont' notice my obvious glare. I remember learning that even when nerve cells are anesthetized they still feel pain but cannot send that information to the brain, so we don't feel the pain the cells do. I felt that there was a scream bubbling in me but I knew that it would not be heard even if I opened my mouth, my brain remained numb. I was afraid that I would ruin her day for her. I was fearful of being scolded for being a brat. But I was even more scared that she would be forever lost to me.

I remember her teaching me how to read my Filipino textbooks and correcting my homework. I remember her being afraid of mice and anything that crawled. I remember her singing during church, she had such a great voice. I remember her driving the motorcycle too fast and ending up crashing it in a ditch. She was really sorry for endangering us due to her desire to speed. I remember being conned into getting money for them from my mom's purse. I remember being introduced to her highschool friends and being told that I was her cutest sibling but until I was older she held that title. I remember her going away to college and seeing less and less of her. I remember her visiting in Cebu, finding the dialect amusing. I remember being in South Cotabato with her and our family for a vacation. I remember wishing they were just there in Cebu with us. I remember being told she was getting married. I remember wanting to beg her not to marry. I remember wanting to cry and ask that she not leave our family. I remember wanting to ask if she was leaving because she no longer wanted us. I remember being heartbroken that I no longer had my big sister.

10 years later I sit here and write about it. I realize that I had begged them all to stay. And they wished they could but it was not possible. However, I am still their baby sister, they say. I am content with that. I wrote this for feeling nostalgic, for her since her birthday is nearing and I have still to get a card. I wrote this for us, for me being born on the same month she was. I wrote this for closure for that little girl who experienced her first heartbreak when she realized that nothing is forever. I wrote this for being on good terms with my brother in law, who sucked at playing the villain who stole the princess. I wrote this for love which is shared greatly in this family.

Happy birthday sister, you are loved always.

esse quam videri

to be, rather than to appear.

Why can't we just be upfront and say what we want? I'm guilty of hiding behind my sarcasm and words so I have no excuse of calling you on your own mask. I'm just curious about our relationship. We've had the typical sibling rivalry, the nonsensical spats, the immature bickering, the quiet moments of peace, and conversations on nothing and everything. I used to hate you when we were younger. You were annoying, pesky, and mean. You had the typical older brother behavior down to pat. But we grew up and matured, somewhat. You opened my doors to animes, computer games, and music. I never relied on you to protect me, and I grew up strong. You were the only one who could get under my skin and get a reaction from me. It was fun to be your younger sister. We had an odd relationship at best but we got each other. What I don't understand is why I don't know who you are right now. I thought I got you pegged as this guy but you aren't him after all or at all. You haven't betrayed me, you haven't hurt me. The only thing you did was strip me away further from my naivete, my reluctant comfort zone of ignorance. I'm not judging you for what you did, I'm not like that. I just sigh because when we grew up I don't know who left whom behind. I guess we can never go back to the past and be the way we were as much as I want to. I hope you know that you're still my kuya and I am still your ading. The sibling dynamics hasn't changed but I have to grow up some more.