Like Cotton Seeds

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These last few days and up until now, it has been raining cotton balls here in the University of the Philippines. What they call here as American cotton trees have seen shooting these balls, covering the green lawn in the Freedom Park with soft whiteness. Even the surrounding willow and acacia trees are covered with them, much like snow coating the pines. These cotton balls each have a seed inside which when lucky to land on good soil and be protected, will grow to become another mighty tree. Here, it is believed that the shower of cotton signify the end of the semester and the celebration of graduation. Indeed, graduation rites in the University will be held days from now.

Little Bridge

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Some nights ago, a Facebook friend shared a forty-second video on her account. Though it did not receive that much likes or comments, I still find it worth sharing. The video is about how a big brother helped his little sister cross a small gap (though it appears really wide for their age) on a pavement. Seeing his little sister’s difficulty, the brother laid and stretched himself out over the gap, acting like a bridge for her. It is truly a funny and cute moment, watching these two adorable kids helping out each other. At the same time, it is heart-warming and thought-provoking, teaching us a thing or two about true brotherhood.

Heroes, et al.

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Over the recent years, I have been downloading and watching my favorite childhood animated TV series. I already had a complete copy of X-Men: The Animated Series (aired in the early 90’s), Full Metal Alchemist, Mushishi, Hunter X Hunter, Fushigi Yugi, and One Piece (which is my most favorite anime). And just this minute, I found out that Power Rangers celebrated their 20^th anniversary. A Youtube video of several Red Rangers (presumably from different versions of the action show) going around key places in the US is a huge hit in many social media.

The Old House: Shattered Innocence

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....Continued from The Old House: An Unforeseen Evil

Quito had witnessed enough and had controlled himself too much. Hastily, he retraced his way out of the house. After closing the last door, he breathed real air for the longest time. 

The house is evil, he murmured.

The Old House: An Unforeseen Evil

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....Continued from The Old House: Hungry Cries

The shadow was that of a woman; she was swaying to the beat of claps. It was a lazy dance. Her hair was long and tousled, and she seemed to wear a loose robe. Below her was another figure.

 

Curious, Quito dug through the thick layers of fibers. It was a painstaking struggle, careful and unhurried so as not to distract the owners of the shadows. Upon reaching the last curtains, he made another sign of the cross, and through the breach between two fabrics, he peeped.

The Old House: Hungry Cries

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....Continued from The Old House: The Tradition

Few minutes had passed by before he finally went inside the house. He proceeded to the living room where the staircase was, surveying the place along the way. Except for the cobwebs dangling around the corners and on the ceilings, the house was surprisingly neat and fragrant with a strawberry scent. There were lighted candles everywhere – on the kitchen counters, on the wooden furniture pieces and even on the stairs. They were ingeniously arranged. For a moment, Quito was mesmerized by the exoticism of the surroundings.

The Old House: The Tradition

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....Continued from The Old House: Children's Tale

Quito erased the thought, and instead, he concentrated on his driving. He had vowed to himself that he would never return to the old house. But tonight, he violated his own decree and was now a mile from the house, biking under a brilliant moon, gliding through shadows and suppressing the bitter bite of the breeze as well as the fright creeping within him.

The Old House: Children's Tale

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It was eleven in the night and a stark eeriness hang in the air. The stillness was broken by the sudden howling of dogs. Quito jumped to his feet and stood frozen for some dreadful seconds. When the noise abated, he sighed a relief. Cautiously, so as not to make the bamboo slats of the floor creak, he sneaked out of his room. Peeping through the door of their room, he checked his parents and found them embracing each other, sound asleep. Sighing another relief, he made the sign of the cross, then tiptoed his way to the kitchen.

A Lighted Candle

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Almost five years ago, a year after my father's death, I wrote this sad recollection....

As noisy as it had been, the house is now peaceful. Friends and relatives who came to commemorate with us my father’s first death anniversary had now left. And as lonely as the stillness that enveloped our home are my father’s memories, which a few hours ago, we joyfully shared.

Alone: A Sad Past

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.... Continued from Alone: A New Friend

“You’re special,” the mistress of the House had said the first time he came. “Don’t fear. We will help you. We’ll give you all the joy and love and goodness in this world.”

Young Elias, clod in rags, with eyes swollen and bruises all over his tiny body, had been frightened of the fat lovely woman, of the friendly children around him, of the enormous house. Everything had been too horrible. Even in his  bed, his first bed, soft, scented and clean, he had been crying, hearing howls and screams, seeing hands hitting him, tasting blood in his mouth. He flinched from touch; he hated people. Those early days, he had been uncontrollable.

My Father and I

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Two years ago, I wrote this short memorial about my father.... 

Today is my father’s third death anniversary. Three years have already passed but it seems like yesterday. Not that I have not moved on with my life without him, or that I am still haunted with his memories. I simply missed him.

You is My Friend

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I was roaming through my cabinet when I stumbled upon my old “treasure chest”. It is quite childish but like me, I supposed everyone has a “treasure chest”. Whether it is literally a box, an album of favorite photographs, or more modern, a cache of personal blogs. My “treasure chest” is a large biscuit can with its tin already rusting with age. It is circular and heavy. Then I opened the tight lead of the can, bang the tin shouted, and out popped my letters.