P[e]NORAMA

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Once there was an old man whose body was covered with scars. Every morning, before putting on a shirt, he would look into the mirror to admire his scar-studded body, smiling as broadly as a man with a six-pack abs does these days.

Unlike most folks he knew who would do anything to conceal their scars, the old man was immensely proud of his.

“You should not be ashamed of your scars,” he would advise anyone who would listen. “Our scars are the remnants of the pains we went through, our trophy for prevailing over the tribulations that have come our way, the reminders of the strength we have inside.”

People would just nod their heads, but the moment he turned away, they would immediately embark on a journey to find effective ways to hide their ‘unsightly’ scars.

The old man knew this, of course, but he only said to himself: “Oh, how foolish some people are.”

One morning, as the man was admiring himself in front of the mirror, his grandson, who was standing by the door asked, “Where did you get that scar, grandpa?”

(more…)

I have always been aware of Death. I have never doubted that he’s real and that he’s such a powerful being, no one can escape his might. I’ve always been aware of the indescribable pain and stark sense of loss that are his marks; and of the bottomless void and utter emptiness that he always carries with him wherever he goes.

But for a long time, Death was just a mythical presence in my mind, like Santa Claus who goes around giving gifts to every child on Christmas, but somehow manages to always overlook our house. I had always concluded that our house was so remote Santa Claus could not possibly find us, which was just fine by me because I was never concerned about receiving gifts from him. I had, in fact, been thankful that our house seemed to have been left out in the maps of the deities, especially whenever I would think about Death. Every time I let my mind wonder about Death, I always envisioned him having a hard time finding our house and that of our extended family. I would then smile to myself, thinking that somehow we had been tricking Death for sometime without him knowing it.

But not for long. Death eventually located where Inang (grandmother) and Amang (grandfather) lived. One night in December 2005, without warning, he forced entry into Amang and Inang’s door, and took my lovely Inang with him.

It was my first time to see Death up close. He was a gory sight, a horrible presence that sucked up happy emotions and thoughts, replacing them with despair and gloom. I felt awful being that close to him. Still, I tried to stand between him and my Inang and defiantly challenged him not to prey on the weak. But Death knows no dignity. He simply looked down on me, telling me there would be a time he’d deal with me, but not just yet. I smelled his putrid breath as he spoke; it was all I could do not to puke. I stared at him hard, and a chill ran through me. I noticed there was no heart inside his ribcage. He must have lost it some time ago; or maybe it was never there.

I watched as Death walked out of the house, carrying my Inang who was blissfully lost in her dreamless sleep. We knew we were defeated; there was nothing we could do. Our only consolation was that Inang didn’t seem to know what had happened; she looked at peace in her sleep.

The moment Death and Inang left, darkness enveloped the house, but this, we did not readily notice. We didn’t have the strength to go and switch on the lights; we were all consumed in our loss as we struggled to console Amang, who was so calm, having already surrendered everything to the God we prayed to every night. That night, though, life refused to flicker in Amang’s eyes.

My great loss threw me into a bottomless pit I never knew existed. I felt I had drowned or suffocated. My pain and loss gnawed at my very soul and ate a big piece of my being. Every time I felt the need to unleash my pain, I would let out all the water in the overflowing dam of my aching heart.

Then a new kind of fear enveloped me, realizing that Death was not yet done with us. He would be back, and in my heart I knew who he would take with him first. Since Inang’s departure, a kind of panic always enveloped me every time I looked at or thought of Amang. So I tried to be home more often and spend as much time with him as possible.

Death did come back, much sooner than I had thought. In May 2007, just over a year after he took Inang away from us, Death showed up at Amang’s door. He neither knocked on the door nor acknowledged us. He just went straight to Amang’s bed and gathered him into his cold, unfeeling embrace. How we shouted at Death to let go of Amang, how we tried to pull Amang free of the unwanted visitor’s powerful grip. But slowly, gradually, we lost. Death had Amang lying limp in his arms, and though they lingered a while longer, they too eventually left; leaving us to mend the shreds of our shattered hearts.

Life went on. We managed to accept our great losses. But life was never the same again for us who have been left behind. Where before I could simply go home and share a laugh with Inang and Amang, all I have left of them now is a memory — so alive Amang and Inang seem, so tangible are their images I swear I can feel them in my arms and hear their sweet laughter. But still, deep within me I know they are just shadows trying to ease my pain.

I will forever be thankful for the good memories that I have of Amang and Inang, but my heart sometimes can’t help but wish for more. The only thing that gives me strength when I think of them is the thought that they are together now, never to be separated from each other again. Death, after all, is the beginning of a life that never ends — a life that has no place for Death and his utter nothingness.

//Sherma E. Benosa

31 October 2007; 8:35pm

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Holding hands with Grandpa. (Photo taken a year before he died.)

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;It was snack time, yet, instead of a food or a drink, it was Grandpa’s hand that I held in my left hand. He was lying supine on his bed, and I was sitting right next to him. His eyes were closed, his grasp firm, his breathing regular yet shallow.

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I reached out to caress his gray hair with my free hand, my eyes never leaving his face. For the nth time, I was awed at how handsome he still was, despite his advanced age of 88 and his illness that had devastated his body.

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He must have felt my gaze upon him, because just then, he opened his eyes, and he looked deep into me. And for a long time, we stared at each other, neither of us willing to break the link.

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That instant, my mind was wiped out of thoughts. My fear that he would soon go left me. And I felt strength surged through me, and I wondered where that extra strength came from.

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Still, the link remained unbroken. I remember now that as I gazed into his eyes, as I struggled not to break the link, even as my eyes began to hurt and tears were threatening to break free, I was asking him questions in my mind, though I don’t think I ever knew what those questions were. And I remember too that his eyes seemed to be telling me something, but exactly what they were, I never truly understood, but I was — and still am — sure they were of love — his love for us.

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Soon my eyes hurt real bad, and the tears finally broke free. The instant he saw the tears, he closed his eyes and I felt sorry. Sorry that I failed him… that the strength he had lent me was still not enough to sustain me. And sorry that I broke the link.

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I knew then that the moment had passed.I wiped my tears not too discretely, hating myself for being weak just when Grandpa wanted me to be strong, and for failing to hold back my tears. But then I remembered that his eyes were moist, too. And instantly, my heart warmed, realizing that Grandpa never cried in sorrow; his tears were only for happy times.

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Again, I looked at Grandpa’s face, his eyes still tightly shut. I moved closer to him, smoothing his gray hair. And just then, I felt him tighten his grasp on my hand.

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And I realized, the link was never really broken.  

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;Amang Roman died a week after this incident, on 31 May 2007 at 3:37am. . 

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//Sherma E. Benosa; 7 June 2007; 2:37 pm