What seemed to be so unrealistic and impractical can never be questioned if they came to have an impact in someone’s life, in the strangest situations. Today, June 4, 2011, tears flowed as a new-born baby (yesterday, yes it was) turned cold and departed, of a friend's mother was interred. I was one of the few obvious people who cried, or to subtract some bitterness, shed a tear.
It's bizarre; how a baby so far from my family tree, can give me some kick in my nook, because of a memory. When I saw the mother, as there was no sign of happiness (of course that was expected, but I mean extreme sadness by that), last night, I can feel the most painful wrench piercing through my heart. What can be more hurtful than a mother losing her baby, anyway? Especially when you went through nine months of hardship, and got nothing but a deceased output.
It's funny how I correlated this event to the book Second Glance, where a baby was involved, who lived fascinatingly. I told my sister that sometimes when a baby looked dead, it is not. It's just hibernating... only it happens in a cold place. And the situation was different. And I hate myself for even thinking of this, when they are 100% sure they can prove me wrong.
I remember my ninong Ben, oh Ninong Ben, 4 or5 years ago, lying in that signature white bed. He didn't wake up. No one dared to wake him. He never got up. I was, if not emotion-wise, mentally-stabled, in those kind of situations. I know that he's dead. I know he will never get to play with us and visit and teach me whenever I need something for my homework. I know he's not coming back and I will never get to tease him raisins again.
I also remember how my mom cried so much that time. She literally wailed over the coffin. And how, for the first time in my life, had I seen my grandma, ever so loving and seems to have no problem at all but his other black sheep son, bawled. She was almost dying. She reached the edge of going with my ninong. We never got to talk about him since then, with the exception of his death anniversary and All Saints'/Souls' Day. Maybe, for one, we are scared that someone may cry again, or two, many people will cry.
I remember how I forced myself to cry that time. Like I said, I only knew the happenings mentally but not emotionally. I can't figure what's needed to do or not. So when I saw my father rubbing his bloodshot eyes, I imitated him. Like a boss in front of the cameraman with his favorite thing, I was an actor, unacknowledged that I will need those wasted forced tears for the future.
Those kind of situations often break a heart or two. If I literally have the will to turn back time, and the jurisdiction to say who will stay and who will leave, maybe things will change and these memories don't even have to exist anyhow.
I still miss my ninong Ben and the few priceless memories I remember. I will forever reminisce how a mother of my friend cried and how it affected me so much that I can no longer talk to my friends, because I need to cover my eyes with my hands. I can never forget these two people of divergent generations, one in my family tree, and the other not.ng like that. In this caustic world, you and I who's reading this by now, will never know what will happen next.
I will never forget to make every single day worth it. I will not waste anything like that. We just have to keep our faith for that. And once again, make life satisfying for ourselves.
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