Of Faces

OF FACES

If a picture paints a thousand words, so does a face a thousand meanings. Like the proverbial face that can launch a thousand ships, there are others which can also destroy them. Some faces are like lambs but which conceal a monster down under; the reverse could also be true to others. And then there are the faces that deserve the reverence of the human race while the others, are the insults to mankind.

Some people are proud of their faces (no question about that, hallelujah and kudos!). After all, it’s the only face we’ve been given and just as there is no choice, it is destiny, although some are somewhat unhappy for all the same reasons.

But don’t get me wrong here. First, I don’t mean to be mean and I don’t believe in branding of faces as ugly or pretty because at the end of the day, it’s not what really matters; and we all know the word - happiness. Besides, beauty is in the eyes of the beholder, they say (unless literally or metaphorically, one is blind or has sore eyes).

Anyway, faces also mean different things to different people. For a wife, it could be a reason to die for. For a mother, it is a perfect creation on this planet (if not a disaster regretfully delivered into this world). For friends, it is a mirror of themselves - for the stupid things and shortcomings shared and understood. For a brother, it is an object of admiration if not a distaste because every time he sees it, he is reminded that he is... different. For a businessman, it is an opportunity for profit. For a lover, it makes the rose rosier, the skies bluer, and the grass, greener.

When I was teenager, the human face tickles my fancy, especially if it magnetizes, or induces one to see rainbow colors, or that brings out the genius in an idiot or the reverse of it. For me, a person was only as good as its face value. I thought it was the most important reason why a person’s face should be at the front of the head - not on the belly, nor on top of the butt.

When I grew more mature, I came to see faces as something that represented a being or an existence. And no matter how different, it had its own right and reason to be a part of the perfect universe that we have now come to live.

When I became an OFW, this concept gave me an added dimension - monotony. It’s about seeing the same thing over and over again in a closed encampment that if it were possible to switch faces like pants or shirts, many would surely have protested – except if one is already tired of his face that all he wants is to trade it with another. But, that’s another story.

Not that I hate my colleagues’ faces that I am cynical to “face-switching” (if there’s anything like that). It’s just that, this only face I got is an heirloom incomparable with any treasure (except for gold or diamond). For what will happen if on my vacation my wife sees another man’s face in me? It’s stupid.  But if by divine providence – heavens forbid – it happens and my “new” face cannot be accepted, I wouldn’t be surprised. But what if my wife loves it? That would be a disaster. Just imagine your wife adoring the face of your co-worker switched in you? That’s terrible.

But of course, there are the other faces of everything, including of course, the face. In the encampment, we are surrounded with homesick faces which remind us of our own homesickness. But there are also the faces that soothe, or that paint a big grin on another’s face, or that make us feel like we have a brother to lean on (or to bully). When the happiness is so little and the sadness, so huge, there is a funny face to lighten our days. Who else help each other except faces stuck up together in a small world away from home? That’s what keeps us going – the camaraderie and the helping hands... plus the picture of the “Hot Bodies”… our days are never more complete.

So what’s the deal?  That faces - in all shapes and sizes, representations (or dignities and indignities) are just like the tip of an iceberg that reveals only ten percent of its mass. A face may tell us a thousand beautiful and ugly meanings. But unless we have explored its depths and heights, we will never really know everything. They say never to judge a book by its cover; and so too a person by his face. For the face is the cover to a book, the logo to a company, or the emblem to a country. A face may be the trademark of a man’s physical existence; but it is just the door that leads us to one’s heart and soul.

And for an OFW like me, it is one of the few reasons that make my life move on, and my little world - here in the middle of the desert - goes round and round…

Mom... I Love You

Just a few days ago, I received information that my mom suffered a stroke leaving her partially paralyzed and speech-impaired. Having been away as the incident occurred left me with not much to do but hope and pray. I was told that mom’s physical strength seems to be vanquishing. As of this writing, she is heavily disoriented. Although her words are incomprehensible, my sister told me that she seemed asking for me, apparently fearing her time would come before I would arrive back home.

And, I’m still here in Saudi, stuck up in the middle of the desert. Some things have prevented me from coming home. Of course, there should be no excuses but if you are in a foreign land and things are out of hand, there is not really much things to do. It breaks my heart to be just staying here so idle while mom struggles for life. And it pains me more to be feeling so powerless and worthless...

On my last vacation, mom was already frail. In spite of it, she does her chores. She cooks her food, cleans her yard, maintains her garden, washes her clothes manually, gathers firewood, treks the two-kilometer distance to the market and church every day, wakes up at 3 am for her daily rosary and novena. Even at her old age, weakness, poor vision and hearing, she prefers the things traditional over comfort and luxury.

Since the death of my father four years ago, it is mom whom the family turns to for advice and comfort. And all she wanted for me was to come home safe and well.

I love my mom, of course, like everyone else. I am the youngest in the family and you can imagine how closer I am to her than my brothers and sisters. I had stupid experiences with mom too but always, it’s the sweet moments that stick to my mind. And it hurts to know that she is out there suffering and calling out my name.

On my last vacation, I asked her one week into my departure back to Saudi. “Mom, next week, I’ll be off to Manila already…”

She stopped her dishwashing, slowly turned and hugged me tight. “I don’t know if I you will still see me alive when you return, son… I seem to be so weak. But keep on praying – that we will still be given the chance to see each other again.” mom said as tears flowed down her face and her voice cracked sobbing on my shoulders.

I did not answer her anymore. I just cried with her. On the day I left, I never came to her for fear that she would again break into tears.

That was the last time I saw and talked with mom. And with her present condition, everyone in the family has resigned to the fact that at any moment soon she will leave us.

But right now, my only hope is to come home, see her alive and tell her one thing I have never told her before, “Mom, I love you so much…”

-------------------------------------------------

Note: My mother died a few days after I finally arrived home...

Of Superstition, Mom and the Little Rascal

My mom is a full-blooded superstitious. She believes in things like, “a cat should never be bathed (or a lightning will strike)”; “nails and hairs should not be trimmed in the evening (coz it cuts away the luck)”; “a woman should not leave her panty overnight at clotheslines outdoor”, (or she will be impregnated by some bad spirits), and still many more.

These beliefs are so entrenched into my mom’s system that anyone who would oppose her views will never see the peacefulness of day again – because she will do everything in her power to nag or to badmouth her adversary.

This is what happened when our house was built. She believes that a house’ entrance should face the east (the sunrise thingy and luck). So, instead of the main street in front of our house, it is at the back – just because the damn street happens to be on the west. You can imagine us having to still walk some meters around just to reach the entrance from the main street. And no one in my family ever successfully convinced mom otherwise; not even father.

Mom also believes that teeth-grinding while at sleep is bad because it invites bad luck and misfortune, and in order to stop it, someone must slap the sleeping, “grinding” person in the face without looking at him, using a slipper (note – a slipper).

At twelve years old, I still sleep with mom – on the same bed! (I’m the youngest kid, and very much spoiled, so that explains everything).

At that time also, a seven-year old nephew whose parents had some domestic problems, was put in my parents’ charge. The boy was a huge coward, so during sleeping time we have a threesome: me, my nephew, and my mom in the middle. (My father sleeps in the farm to guard our livestock).

And here’s the problem: my nephew was so stubborn, and cunning, and lazy, and a certified scoundrel. He takes everything from me, ruins my day, pisses me off, and steals my mom’s attention. Everything I hate, he does. And he does it just to make me miserable.

So, he was an enemy. How I wished I could hit the bastard on the face, or strangle his neck without my mom knowing it.

My other problem with this nephew was that while on sleep, he grinds his teeth so hard that it wakens me up in the middle of the night. Not only that, the grinding is so eerie that my hairs would stand!

So there were a lot of reasons for me to get even with the stinker.

Since I knew mom would hate it, I told her about my nephew’s teeth-grinding; and her advice?  Slap him with the bloody slipper while he’s asleep and without looking at him.

Ah... sweet revenge! It’s payback time! The devil in me exclaimed.

So armed with the blessing of my immaculate mom, I excitedly prepared the holy slipper beside me before going to bed.

Then bedtime came. We said our prayers, and lay on the bed together – with mom in the middle, as usual. And almost immediately, the two of them fell asleep. 

I waited for the big event.

After a few hours, the scoundrel started to grind his teeth... Immediately, with careful approximation (not to hit mom), I swung the slipper without looking, “Plap! “

I observed.

But the bloody grinding continued so I again swung my arms more forcefully and quickly, “Plap! Plap! Plap!”

Still the grinding continued and even got stronger and stronger!

I was damn furious. I stood up, went to father’s room and took father’s leather shoe. I chose the one with the thickest heel like a whole kilo of weight.

“OK, let’s see if you’re not going to stop on this one”. I murmured.

Then I lay back on the bed, positioned the shoe in my hand and held it tight in a way that the heel in its full force would land on my nephew’s face. I closed my eyes (so I won’t see my target, as per mom’s instruction), gather my composure, and with a fiery force swung the leather shoe into my nephew’s face.

“KA-BLAGGGG! “KA-BLAGGGG! “KA-BLAGGGG!

Suddenly, mom rose up. I thought I saw her like a possessed woman with her long hair drooping and so tousled, partly covering her face. Then she faced me, and –

“SON-OF-A-*****!!! Why did you hit me! O my God! O my God, O my Godddddddd!!! What did you do to my mouth! OUCCCHHHHHHH!”

“Errrr... Mom, a... err... I’m sorry. I just followed what you said, a... er... to slap Emilio because he’s grinding his teeth...” I reasoned cowering in fear.

“To slap Emilio but you slapped me, you DEVIL! And why did you use a shoe?! WHY DID YOU USE A DAMN SHOE!!! I TOLD YOU, SLIPPER – IDIOT – SLIPPERRRR!!! HUHUHUHUHUHU!!!”

I felt that the world had disintegrated before me. I didn’t know how to pacify mom at that point. I just stayed put coyly and frightfully, absorbing massive doses of invectives, and encouraging her to release some more on me.

And while mom was busy shouting all the world’s curses and profanities, Emilio was in the corner holding back his laughter and making faces.

My whole night was a total destruction. I was evicted and forced to another room; I could not sleep with mom’s loud and lengthy sermon, and there’s the little devil dancing and relishing his happiness and victory.

Since then, mom never allowed me to sleep with her on the same bed again. And as for my nephew, he continued to be the little rascal that he was – braver than ever, pestering my days like hell.

Meetings Make Us Stupid

Meetings Make Us Stupid!

I almost fell from my chair in great bewilderment when I chanced upon a featured article in one popular internet site that reads: “Meetings Can Make Us Stupid”. Yeah, that’s true and there’s no way I am making this up. I know it sounds stupid and whoever wrote that article must have himself suffered from the immense shot. But that’s what it is. It’s the same stupid thing which I have been thinking all along too!  And I know it because every time I attend meetings, I feel that something strange is already going on inside my brain. In fact, I am not sure if I am still in my right mind when I write this blog – lol.

The article did not mention on how stupid one can become by simply having a meeting but it emphasized one sensible statement when it said that resolving issues on individual basis is better than having many (stupid) heads discussing and brainstorming the same things. It presented further explanations, instances, and proofs of people getting stupid out of these meetings but I cannot anymore divulge those findings lest I will be accused of promoting stupid stuffs here – lol. 

It is not really difficult to find proofs of symptomatic stupidity. Just look at the Philippine Congress – our beloved congressmen. All they do during meetings is disagree. If their opponents switch side, they switch to the opposite side too just so they can disagree. And they never just disagree; they also accuse each other of wrongdoings; the most common of which, is corruption. This is a serious form of stupidity – to accuse someone of doing something which everyone knows that all of them, the accuser included, do. I know it because there was once a public outcry to enact a law to punish anyone found to be stupid. And the lawmakers vehemently objected to such proposal on the grounds that first, it will be called “Stupid Law” which won’t sound very pleasing, and second, all of them feared it.

And do you know that in certain countries, lawmakers don’t use words to disagree among themselves anymore? They use their fists. Yes, their fists. And they hurl them into the air and into their opponents’ face just to stress their point! This is a more advanced form of stupidity, which, I think everyone would love to happen to our witty, intelligent lawmakers. How lovely it would be to see the fist of Senator Jinggoy landing into the face of Miriam or that of Bong into the face of Madrigal. This must be the reason why Manny Paquiao, the Philippine boxing hero, wanted to become a lawmaker!

I went a little further to find out among few of my meeting-addict friends if there are really some truths to what I just discovered. The following were their testimonies:

Friend #1: In my company, it is normal to end meetings with some issues remaining unresolved. After each meeting, my boss goes straight to his laptop and emails all the other managers saying something like, “In addition to the discussion of this issue which we haven’t yet decided, kindly consider the following points, 1-2-3, and so on, and I need you to give me your feedback ASAP.” Then he waits for the feedback. Three days and there is no feedback. He sends another email saying something like, “Since there is no feedback, I will now consider points 1-2-3 of my earlier email, and Ted should already know what to do (he means draft a memo)”. I draft the memo, sends it to my boss who then circulates it by email saying something like, “Attached is the draft memo for your comment/feedback ASAP”. There is no feedback again. So my boss sends final email saying, “Since there is no feedback, I will hold the memo in abeyance, and we will have a meeting again to discuss this unfinished issue.” And this cycle of unfinished issues starts all over again. Isn’t it stupid to hold meetings over and over again, over the same unfinished issues?

Friend #2: My boss at times calls us to solicit for our “valuable” opinions on some matters we know better on the ground. And he presents his agendum by saying, “This is the situation and I want you to give me your ideas, although my idea is A-B-C. What do you say?” I would say, “I think we can also apply D-E-F.” Another would say, “G-H-I” And the discussion just goes on until someone now uses statistics, historical data, formulas and calculations, and other members follow suit by pulling out their calculators, abacus whatever they have – all the best (stupid) things there is to muster just to get noticed. And at the end of the “very” fruitful 2-and-something hours of vigorous discussion, my boss finally says, “Hmm, hmm...” scratching his balding head, eyes transfixed to the wall for some seconds and finally concludes, “so idea A-B-C is better... that’s all. Thank you!” He says as if he wants us to clear the area, like it was bomb-laden, in 5 seconds. And we leave the room with bulging eyes in disbelief, our faces looking paper-white in terror. Why solicit our opinion when in the end, his opinion is still the better? Hmm.

Friend #3: This is what usually happens during our staff meetings: Member A says that his idea is A-B. Member B says that the idea of member A, which is A-B, is ok. Member C says that the idea of member B, which we all know is just a conformance to the idea of member A, is better. And the stupidity becomes obvious when member D suggests to combine the ideas of members B and C. The meeting is adjourned with the ideas of member A being carried out but the credit goes to members B and C due to the stupid suggestion of member D.

And the proofs just go on and on with evidence of people getting stupider and stupider. I for one don’t really believe in meetings (except for that part where the catering comes in and all we do is exercise our taste buds). They waste our precious time and energies, they overstretch the functions of our already overworked minds (due to acute internet addiction), they eat up company man-hours which we otherwise would have used in doing more important things like going to the bathroom, writing journals, chatting or surfing the net, or sending text messages to people we don’t even know. In fact, I plan to suggest for the abolition of meetings. The only problem with this suggestion is that we need to discuss thoroughly this issue through – what else, but again – meetings. And if this issue reaches to our beloved lawmakers with their serious (and most of them advanced) stage of stupidity, I am sure they will move heaven and earth to defend the sanctity of what they were elected to do – to disagree.

Anyway, if you are a person who likes to attend meetings, or may have attended many meetings in your lifetime already, I guess you need to rethink things over. I would even suggest that you go see a psychiatrist because chances are that you have become stupid yourself too (lol!); this, granting that the psychiatrists themselves have not yet been afflicted with massive doses of meeting-induced stupidity.

I got to stop for now; I have an important activity to catch up with – a nice, really, really stupid meeting.

Loloy

Loloy

“Uncle, on your vacation this coming June, I will be getting married and you will be my main sponsor. So please don’t postpone your vacation because I especially set this date so that you can attend...” the letter from Loloy says.

Loloy is my nephew; well... a special nephew. What made him so special is the fact that he was born with a handicap: harelip and a cleft palate.

I think Loloy was seven or eight years old when he became the apple of my father’s eye. My father would bring him anywhere he went: church, movie, park, restaurant, and even to the farm. They developed a special bond, as if they were of the same age or level. They slept in one room, eat together, went out together, take a bath together, they do everything together. Even when Loloy’s family had to transfer to Manila, Loloy chose to be left behind in the province with his grandfather. They were inseparable.

I remember a time when my father had a hard cough after a day’s work and Loloy reprimand him like an old man saying, “That’s what you get when you overwork yourself in the farm!”

“If I don’t work in the farm, we have nothing to eat.” father reasoned.

“Then, sell the damn farm!” Loloy retorted angrily as if an adult talking to another adult as mother and I could just chuckle overhearing their seemingly adult talk.

Going to the kinder school for Loloy was not really a big problem. I mean I knew that his classmates teased him and laughed at his speech impediment but instead of getting angry or withdraw in self-pity, he would just laugh with them. And the more his classmates laughed, the more he spoke showing off his defective pronunciation, to the delight of everyone. And this attitude had earned Loloy the respect of his classmates. Everyone was his friend.

Personally I admire his happy disposition because if I were in his shoes and being mimicked, I would probably pursue the mimicking bastard and kick him in the butt. But Loloy was different; he would just smile, unaffected by the verbal abuse as if he heard nothing at all. And every time I witness such cruelty, my heart breaks. I knew that Loloy suffered it in silence.

Loloy was fourteen when he went under the knife to correct his impairment. He was supposed to undergo three operations; first on his lips and the other two on his cleft. But on the second operation, he almost died of hemorrhage. So he decided to keep his speech defect forever. “What use will it be if I can speak well but I’m already dead?” He would reason.

So even if he still had his handicap, he still continued to be the lively boy that everyone respected and loved. And my father was always there for him. He knew his pains and sufferings.

“Grandpa, do you think I will be able to have a girl friend one day? Will a girl want to take for his boyfriend a man like me?”

“You know, Loloy, if a person is really meant for you, both of you will be together. But, that is in God’s time. Just pray hard that you will find her. Look at me, who would have thought your grandmother would end up marrying me? I was a big bastard and a drunkard? And I pestered your grandmother all the time, hahahahaha!?” My father would tell his experience to give Loloy a boost.

“Really grandpa?”

“Yeah. But why... is there any special girl now?”

“Yeah but she doesn’t like me and I heard from a friend why; it’s because of my handicap” Loloy would confide sadly.

“Ah, you’re in love! Hahahaha!” My father would laugh to reassure that it was ok to experience rejection. “Don’t worry Loloy. As I said, if the right girl comes, she will come and she would love you for everything you are. Don’t worry about this girl, she surely isn’t the one for you.... Do you really love her that much?”

“Yeah...”

“Oh I see... Well, too bad for her, she doesn’t know what she is missing.”

“Ha!Ha!Ha!Ha!Ha!” Then the two of them would laugh together.

“Ok, grandpa, let’s go fishing”

That’s how the two of them would spend their time bonding, relaxing and comforting each other.

After a few years, father died. I knew that the pain of losing my father had a profound effect on Loloy. For him, he lost not only a grandfather but a best friend, a confidant an ally, and an inspiration. We thought Loloy’s outlook in life would change upon father’s demise. But he remained to be the optimistic nephew that I knew.

Since I worked abroad, I hadn’t heard so much about Loloy anymore, except on special occasions as birthday, Christmas or any important family matters; until this letter coming from Loloy himself. As I looked back, I knew of Loloy to be just the little boy who wished upon a star to have his dream come true. And after some struggles with the difficulties and complexities of life, now he is happily telling me that he was almost there.

How I wish my father to be here to share the happiness that Loloy feel and to witness the realization of his beloved grandson’s dream. But right where he belongs now, I know that he is watching, smiling on Loloy’s happiness.

Then I read the last line of his letter, “PS. Uncle, please don’t forget your present for me and for my fiancee! Love, Loloy and Menchie”

Jeff...

The Boy Named Jeff

Probably one of the most critical juncture of my life was when I was in the big city looking for a job and stayed jobless for sometime. I had no money, no friends. I had problems with boarding house and I was far away from home. I was pretty hopeless. I thought I carried one hell of a problem.

Almost every night I would go to the Cultural Center, a few meters from my boarding house. It was for me a spot where I could find refuge from the many problems I faced: to feel the air, to introspect, to cry, and as always, to blame myself and everyone.

One night while I was sitting on this grassy part near the Phil-cite area, a teenager-like eighteen years old approached and simply sat down near me. He was medium-built, with long hair, and around 5’8” in height.

At first he was kind of oblivious I was there. He just sat as if ruminating on something. He stayed that way for a couple of minutes. Then later he glanced and pushed himself beside me and inquired if I had a companion. I told him that I was alone and just relaxing.

Suddenly, he took an ice pick and aimed it on me. I thought I saw an angel suddenly transforming into a devil.

“Give me what you have in your pocket or I will bury this damn ice pick into your flesh!” he threatened in an anxious voice.

Although I feared for what harm he could do to me at that time, I told him “I have no money. I came from the province just a month ago and I could not find a job yet. My life has no meaning and I want to die. If you want, you can kill me!”

Probably struck in what I said, he stared at me. I thought he would swing the ice pick into my chest. But instead, he put it down, stooped, and cried like a kid.

“What’s the matter, are you not going to kill me or something?” I asked sarcastically as I cautiously took away the ice pick.

He stayed motionless for a while then wiped off the tears from his face. There was some nervousness in my system. But realizing the sudden turn of event, I became like flabbergasted.

He still did not talk nor attempt to move. Sensing that after all, he could have been a good person and just having some problems, I attempted to talk to him. “My name is Mike. What’s yours?”

“Jeff”.

“So, why did you cry, Jeff?” I asked still unsure if he would want the conversation to move on.

“I just remembered something...” he said diffidently.

Silence.

I thought I would leave him but my curiosity of knowing what bothered him deep down prevailed. I cracked the silence by telling him that I was new to the place and was only there to have a time with myself. I told him how I missed my family, how I wanted to come back home but I could not because I had to prove to them that I could stand on my own... but never realized how difficult it was to stay in the big city without money, without a job, and without friends.

He just kept silence, but I could feel he was listening to every word I said. “How about you?” I said looking at him.

He did not answer. To beat his shyness, I pointed the ice pick on him kidding, “OK, tell me what your problem is or I will bury this damn ice pick in your flesh!” mimicking what he did.

“HAHAHAHAHA!” The two of us laughed suddenly. Then he pushed himself to sit beside me again.

“So, how many people have you already victimized?” I joked.

“Please... and for the record, I never mugged anyone in my life except you, ok?”

“So, why did you do it? And what the heck did you cry for?”

His facial expression turned serious. Then he started to talk, “I remember my older brother. He could have looked like you. He is the only one I have “

“Why, what happened to him?” I asked.

“I am from the province too. When I was 10 years old (and my brother was fourteen then), both our parents died from an accident. Immediately after our parents were buried, my brother went to Manila to find his luck while my uncle took care of me. Since then, I have never heard from my brother again. My situation with my uncle was like hell, he never treated me fairly. And one thing I hated so much was...”

“Was what...” I butted in.

“He sexually molested me!” He said sadly as tears rolled down his face. There was anger in his eyes. “Almost every day when his wife would be away he would ask me to come to his room and would threaten to kill me if I would not obey. Every time he did it on me, I felt my dignity was taken away... I had no one to trust, no one to turn to, no one to love, and the world was full of shit! I didn’t go to school, and have nothing... Then after a year, I decided to follow my brother. I stowed away in a ship... But, even here, I don’t know who to trust. And I don’t even know how to find my brother...”

I did not know how I truly felt having heard his story. It was so strange and heart-rending I could not even believe an uncle can abuse his own nephew, and after what happened to his parents.

“So how do you survive it here?” I asked again.

“I have friends, and I service them...sex. Yeah, I know I should not tell you this, but, what is it to you, anyway. Sometimes, I feel I can’t hold on to it anymore. I am tired and afraid of many things... “

“Then find another job...” I suggested pretending like it was so easy to find one.

“I tried, but I always landed in a hard labor. Then, I thought mugging could be a good alternative, and here I go with you.”

I released a sympathetic smile. “And what is your plan now?”

“I don’t know...” He paused. “But, you know” he continued “I still believe that there is a reason why I am still here until now. I could have died of starvation, of ailment, of accident, or salvaging... but I am alive!” releasing a faint smile.  

“Really...”

“Yeah, I’m sure... But just look at the grass; it is not affected by how excessively you step on them, remove them, eliminate them... they just grow and grow. If there must be a reason why the grass grows, then there could be a special reason for me too... And I am not a grass. I am a human being. Maybe one day, I’ll finally see my brother... that’s all I wanted.”

I didn’t know how long had I stayed and talk with Jeff that night. But all I knew was that he tried to trust me. And of the many more things he told me, his determination, strength, faith, and optimism in life just hit me hard.

When we finally parted, I told myself, “Yeah, I complain so much about my little problems. And here is one person carrying the whole world on his shoulders... yet is spite of all the odds still believed he could one day find his dream.”

I didn’t see Jeff anymore after that. But all I wished was for him to have found the simple dream that he really wanted. And I had the chance to see him again, I would have told him, “You know what? I guess you have helped in some way to bring me up to where I am now. And thank you for opening up my eyes; to appreciate the things that I have but for which I take for granted. Thank you for showing me the other side of life...”

Mom...

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom!

I was on my way to the drop off terminal for GF passengers bound for Bahrain to Manila. It was 19^th of April 2007 and the temperature was peaking at between 35 – 40 degrees centigrade. It was the first time I would go for an early vacation; early because I would go one-and-a-half month earlier prior to the completion my one-year contract.

That would have been a perfect vacation; my kids were on a summer break, and the hot Philippine summer temperature could drive us to search for refuge in resorts or beaches. It could be the sought-after break for me and my kids – a perfect time for bonding and make up for lost time.

But, that was not really a vacation; part of it was an emergency leave.

Two weeks earlier, I received information that mom had a stroke. Her condition was serious; half of her body was impaired, her speech was unintelligible, and would throw out. The doctors said she was getting worse by the day due to complications. I was devastated. And I felt my heart was smashed into pieces to learn that in spite of her speech impairment, she would struggle from time to time to mention my name and ask why it took me a long time to come home. Every time they would tell her I was not home yet, she would release a deep breath, her face showing extreme impatience and agony. Everyone in the family thought she could have only been waiting for me.

My mind flashed back to the last time I talked with her in my previous year’s homecoming. It was a week before I was to leave – back to Saudi. She was at the kitchen washing the dishes. I approached from her back, sat on the chair and watched her as she did her chores at a seemingly snail's pace. She was a frail, stooping, quaking, tired old lady trying her best to do the things strong people could easily handle.

“Mom, in a week’s time, I’d be leaving you again.” I said in a cautious tone not to upset her.

But it seemed the words I uttered were too heavy to handle. She froze, laid down the dish into the sink and slowly turned around to face me. Her face looked so gloomy, as her tears rolled down. I stood up to receive her hug. She hugged me like it was her last.

“Oh son, I don’t know... I don’t know if I will still be alive to see you in your next vacation! I hope I can still kiss you and hug you like this...” she wailed as she leaned her head on my shoulder. I could not think of a word to say. Seeing mom so sad, so insecure and talking about death made me feel infinitesimal and helpless. My tears started to flow as our sobbing filled the room.

That was the last time I talked with mom. I knew that all she wanted was to hug and kiss me for the last time...

When I finally arrived home, mom was asleep. My four nieces who took turns taking care of her told me that all she does was close her eyes and when she opens them she would ask if I had already arrived.

I sat beside her bed. She was so thin, frail, emaciated, and her breathing seemed exhausted. My tears just flowed down. I knew it was just a matter of time. I felt so worthless. “Here was this woman who gave me life and unconditional love; the woman who took care of me, nurtured me, influenced me, inspired me, protected me, and helped me to become the person that I am; the woman who sacrificed so much and was willing to give up everything for me... fighting for her life and I can’t help her!” was all my mind could say.

The following morning, mom woke up already. As I came, I sat beside her bed as my niece introduced me, “Lola, Tito Mike is already here? Here, here Lola, this side of your bed! Tito Mike is here!”

Looking disoriented, she moved her head slowly and as she transfixed her eyes on my face, her tears flowed. She tried to extend both her arms for a hug but as her body was half-paralyzed, she could only move limply her right arm. I couldn’t explain how I felt. I hugged her and kissed her cheek then I pressed my cheek on her lips for me to feel her kiss too. I did it many times over. All of us in the room cried, perhaps because of happiness that mom and son were reunited, or perhaps because it had to be a painful one.

“See mom... it’s my vacation and you are still able to kiss and hug me!” I kidded to make her laugh. Even with the tears on her face, she released a huge smile.

But that was her last smile. Few days after that, mom passed away. It was 3^rd of May, 2007; few days before mother’s day.

During the burial, I uttered to her the words I would have always wanted to say, “Mom, thank you for all the things you have given me; for all your sacrifices, for the love, for giving me life, for being my strength and inspiration, for being my friend, guardian and protector, for simply being there for me in all my ups and downs.... And thank you too for being a part of my life; for being my mom. Thank you for the final hugs and kisses, for the smile. I will treasure them and everything you have made me. Thank you for the sacrifice of waiting. Without you, things will never be the same again. I have lost a loving mom. I have lost the very woman whom I could bank on with all my problems and pains. I have lost a teacher. I have lost a consoler. I love you, mom. I love you so much. Happy mother’s day and may you rest in peace...”