In memoriam, Garpy Dec. 29, 1982-August 10, 1991, on the anniversary of his birth

"Farewell, dear darling of my soul. A parting blessing on my love. We shall meet again, where the weary are at rest."
- Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities

The gift-giver (A Christmas story of a different sort)

(This was published in the December 7, 1989 issue of Prime Weekly under the column "Still Life." It's being republished here as a Christmas thought.--Jose Luis Tolentino)

He came only once a year, but every year he came, appearing in the run-down neighborhood of the city and bringing gifts to the occupants of a small apartment, a mother and her two sons. He was somewhere in his forties, distinguished in appearance and unmistakably wealthy. Exactly who he was, what he was to the family and why he brought them gifts, no one could say. The family volunteered no information. Every year, however, come December, he would bring gifts of ham and cheese and fruit, clothes, toys for the children whose eyes lit up every time he came. He would arrive on an evening close to Christmas Even, and in the small apartment they would celebrate the season. There would be good cheer and joyful times. Only once year, but he always came.

Of the family there was nothing special, nothing that made them any different than their neighbors. They were among the poor folk who often had to do without, the poor folk who watched with envy as the wealthy lived their easy and luxurious lives. Of course, just like her neighbors, the mother had led a hard life, a sad life. She had married when she was seventeen, and hers had been a stormy marriage, an unhappy one. Still she endured that marriage and focused her attention on the children. Then her husband passed away, meeting his end in a drunken brawl. Since then she had taken care of the children on her own.

Then the gift-giver came. He first appeared one afternoon and stayed for hours. The next time he was seen was in December, and every December after that.

In the neighborhood there was much curiosity about the gift-giver, about how he came to know the family. And in the neighborhood, perhaps, there was envy. When the gift-giver came the family of three would have a feast. Hard times or not, they would celebrate. The mother would smile--it was so seldom that she smiled--and the children's laughter would be hearty. They would have their fill of food, rich food--the feast of the wealthy, with still so much left over for the next few days. And in the small apartment the gift-giver would sing. The neighbors would hear his rendition of familiar songs and Christmas carols. Later on, with the gift-giver having already left, they would ask the mother about him.

"He is a friend," she would say, always.

"Could they be lovers?" it was asked.

Neither the mother nor the children would say. Anyway the mother was happy when he came, so were the children. Come December they would expect him, and always he would come. As he did just two days before Christmas.

It had been a particularly hard and trying year for the family of three, and the gifts he brought them were especially welcome. And like always, in a neighborhood where only the poor folks lived, the gift-giver and the family of three had the feast of kings. And the neighbors talked. They thought of the good food that the gift-giver brought. It had been a hard year for them, too, a bad year. How they envied the family of three, how they resented the mother and her two sons.

From their homes they listened as laughter sounded from the small apartment where the family of three lived. They listened to the gift-giver as he sang Christmas carols. Everything else seemed to have stilled as attention went to the small apartment, to thoughts of the kind of feast inside. It had been a bad year for all of them, yet...

"There, they dine like kings!"

The men smoked their cigarettes, shook their heads in disgust, spat on the ground. The women grunted. The resentment grew as the evening wore on.

"Are they any better?" it was asked.

It was nurtured, the envy and resentment.

Then finally, the gift-giver emerged from the small apartment. He was leaving. He said goodbye to the family of three--till next year, yes--then he started walking. For a few seconds all the neighbors did was watch him.

And us? And us?

Children went to him with their hands held out for anything that he could give. They, too, longed for good food, ham and cheese and fruit. Women went to him. It was Christmas time, but they had little for the family, for the children. The gift-giver continued walking, however slowly now as people stood in his way, as they tried to get something, anything from him. And the men went to him now. The good food and the cold beer, some scotch, perhaps some imported brandy. Could they have none of these?

The gift-giver seemed distressed, helpless. Still silent, he tried to walk on, but it became more and more difficult as the residents of the area fell upon him, asking, asking, asking. The gift-giver could only look at them, he had nothing to give. Still they surrounded him and kept him from going any farther. More and more of them came--children, men, women...

Asking...

Help us, they said. Give us a feast, a real feast. If just for tonight, one night. And sing your Christmas carols.

But the gift-giver's eyes contained only apology.

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In memoriam, Almond Dec. 16, 1994-June 2, 2007, on the anniversary of her birth

One of my brightest lights is gone.
My world is darker now.

Ashes to ashes

Even the greatest of memorials fade in significance. For the ordinary folk such as myself, memorials turn to dust. We make memorials of all sorts in our desire to preserve a memory, to have our loved ones remembered, not just by ourselves but more especially perhaps by others. In the end, however, once those who had known the departed becomes themselves departed, the memorials turn to dust.

Last month, as million trooped to the nation’s cemeteries for the All-Saints Day holidays, I visited the grave of my old boss, my former editor-in-chief. Amid the throngs of people at the cemetery, the mausoleum where his remains lie was quiet, nestled in a peaceful place with other similarly quiet mausoleums. There were a few flowers, but there was no one there. The mausoleum itself was beautiful and appropriately serene, but there was no one there. Many of his generation are long gone. His works and writings live on, but soon enough they will be just words to a name. Years from now, there will be no one to remember the kind of person that he was.

My father’s ashes lie in an urn placed upon an altar in my mother’s bedroom. My father was both a doctor and a lawyer, and he achieved much while he was alive. He was well-liked and well-respected, a giant among Filipino pathologists. He has no grave to speak of, no memorial which people outside the family can visit—just his ashes in an urn, on an altar in my mother’s bedroom. It’s a quiet and private memorial, but a memorial just the same, with photographs around to remind us of him. His name will surely live on, but when we who had known him and loved him are gone, his ashes will become truly dust. Our memorials to him will fade.

My own beloved babies, enshrined in memory in this blog, were buried in the ground. No casket for them, so they literally returned to the earth whence they came. I make all the memorials to them, for them, but none of those memorials can ever capture the everyday joy I felt when they were alive, the comfort they gave me during the dark times, the love they offered unconditionally, the very beauty they possessed. I can perhaps save part of the ground they’re buried in should, for some reason or another, at some time or another, that ground may become inaccessible to me. But when my gone, even that hallowed dirt will become simply dirt.

Ashes to ashes. Dust thou art, to dust thou shall return.

“He’s not really dead, you know. Not as long as we remember him.”

Insightful words from Dr. McCoy to Capt. Kirk in “Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan” after they had given Spock a burial in space.

Indeed, as long as we remember them.

But for our departed to live on in memory, we who had loved them would have to live forever. To remember them, yes, to tell others about them, to keep their images from fading, to preserve their memory in family lore. But we, too, shall become ashes. We, too, shall become dust. And when we do, their memorials will lose all significance.

Our memorials matter only while we live. Strange, but we make these memorials precisely because we want others to remember our departed loved ones even when we’re gone. For ourselves, we need no memorials. After all, we hold them in our hearts. While we live, they remain in our hearts, alive and well somehow, with us still. They come to us in our thoughts, in the grief that never really goes away, in the tears we shed in the quiet of night. We need no memorials in stone or marble. We are their memorials. But we inevitably become dust. The real memorials become dust.

It may be disheartening to think that our loved ones will finally be truly dead, finally unremembered, when we who had loved them, who remember them, are dead as well. But even in such a disheartening thought, we may find some consolation. After all, who wants to live forever remembering a loved one, when one can join that loved one in whatever existence follows this life?

Give me a reunion in ashes anytime and let my memorials fade.

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So what for silent nights

A Christmas Offering

(I wrote this piece in 1982 when I was still a student at the College of Business Administration of the University of the Philippines in Diliman. It appeared on the front page of the December 1982 issue of the Guilder Newsletter. I no longer really "celebrate" Christmas, but I'm putting it here as an offering this Christmas season to whoever may be reading. - Jose Luis Tolentino)

We can just imagine how it must have been at the start, when such a real silent night took place, when all the lights we know of now took the form of a single bright light leading the magi to the Child.

Christmas nights, as we know them now, are anything but silent. Even when the songs and laughter of expectant children take respite, the lingering traces of their tones escort a mind of sleep. Christmas lights burn and chant till dawn, and for consecutive nights, a choir of churches manages well to sing. Young people dream of dates; some worry over funds. While the rest of the family sleep, a child wishes for those presents lying by a tall and jolly tree, each night for him setting with the toll of a kind, imaginary bell bringing time closer to the day. A lonely man as these occur, watches from his window—ponders; for a while, he smiles.

Christmas nights are never silent. Often, the faces of the people speak; worries and disappointments come out, hope and anticipation accompany the smiles of others. Around campus, the mood is strong. The cloudy Christmas sky, almost distinct to the season, hails an oft-claimed joy, proclaims the much-said goodwill to man. Gifts are passed, nights are planned. Expectancy of better things relieves the solitary man, and almost everything is carried out with a Christmas theme.

We never think of Christmas nights as silent, yet the song remains perhaps the most popular and durable of the season. Christmas nights, in fact, come as the busiest in the year for most of us; we greet friends we hardly know, relatives who, for the most part of the year, remain as strangers. We do feel it, don’t we? It is a mood that we ourselves bring toward the end of a year; for some, it becomes a reflective, depressing season, and yet we want it; it is tradition; Christmas has been with us since childhood.

Christmas nights were perhaps better when we were kids, and for some of us, the dread of actually encountering a real “silent night” during a future season, is not so distant. It would be fortunate if all of us were to spend the rest of our days experiencing Christmas nights filled with the joy and the air of brotherhood.

Yet we need not worry about silent nights in Christmas. Even in the worst of times, Christmas comes, and it comes with its sounds, its lights, though less intense, but always, the voice of Christmas reaches us and sings.

Christmas nights are anything but silent. It is only when the last light of Christmas passes out, when the final traces of a Christmas song are sung, that the silent nights suddenly arrive.

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