In memoriam, Prudence April 2, 1999-January 13, 2006, on the anniversary of her death.

You were our jewel.
Now so terribly missed.

A cat's tale

(Published in Prime Weekly under the column “Still Life,” June 15, 1989)

It came about suddenly, the realization. One night I noticed how the cats were all around, as if in a world within a world. I saw the compact shapes by street corners and garbage piles, perhaps figures at a distance revealed only by the faint light of street lamps. It was a world that came alive at night, a world where I was a stranger, an intruder. The cats seemed to be everywhere, just lurking in the darkness, and their presence almost seemed to carry purpose. What that was, however, or if there was really anything of the sort, I couldn’t say. But they were there, stray cats, survivors in a world of no compassion. The night ushered in their world, and that world became clearer and clearer with time. I would see them watching, and at times I would see their eyes. Those eyes were almost frightening. But then they were only cats, strays, and the cats had always been around, neglected, fending for themselves, surviving somehow.

At night I saw them, and I entered their world. Sometimes I would sense some purpose to their presence, some logic and reason in their movement. At times I felt there was something going on, something that the cats reserved only for themselves. Perhaps, I thought, the night held certain secrets. What it was the cats did, if anything at all.

One night while I was on my way home I noticed something different about the cats. I noticed, what, a purpose in their movement, direction. I saw one cat emerging from the darkness. I didn’t give the matter very much notice till I saw others doing the same thing. The occurrence struck me as strange; I thought perhaps that it was just coincidence, some matter that merited nothing more than a moment’s thought, but as I walked on I noticed a certain oneness in the way they moved, in how other cats joined what could have been a solemn march, in how they all seemed to be taking to the streets, as if by some silent understanding. That night, overcome by curiosity, I followed them.

Cautiously I did, taking care not to cause any disruption. The cats moved slowly, even then with purpose and direction, and as I followed them I knew there was a reason for what they were doing. Somehow I knew. Quietly the cats seemed to be headed somewhere. I moved with them and watched them. Several times some of them stopped and seemed to look at me, but then they always continued on their way. To where, however, I still didn’t know.

For the moment my world was reduced to the cats. Only the world of the cats existed, and I was an outsider, an observer. I was there, it seemed, only by their silent consent. I followed them, wondering where they were headed, till finally they stopped. And I realized that there were other cats around, some with their bodies barely visible in the darkness. They had gathered by a dark portion of one street, and I seemed to be the only person around, as though I had been chosen to witness whatever was to occur, if anything. It was quiet by that portion of the street, and the cats were no longer moving. They were simply waiting, so it appeared. They stayed by the sides of the road as vehicles passed by now and again. Then I saw one more feline coming.

By the light of a distant street lamp I caught sight of the approaching figure, just one cat moving slowly, wearily, even then with a feline grace. The other cats kept still and waited. The cat continued on its slow approach. The other cats looked on, rather solemnly. I remained where I was, keeping still and just observing what was happening. What it all meant, I still didn’t know. Just the cats waiting for this one cat on a quiet road. The strays, the homeless, the unloved.

Then I saw the light. It got brighter and brighter, all so quickly. A car was coming. The cat continued in the same direction toward the others, still slowly. The car was moving faster now, yes, the bright headlights beamed. The cat was in its path, and the vehicle wasn’t slowing down. The other cats did nothing. They just looked on silently. The vehicle sped closer to the moving cat, the newcomer. I wished to call out, perhaps for the driver to put on the brakes, but I never got to do so.

There just came the sound, that horrible sound. Like something bursting.

The vehicle was quickly gone. The other cats were still silent.

Another vehicle was coming. A third. That sound again, that sound.

The other cats just looked on. Witnesses, I thought.

For some time there was an uneasy silence. One cat gone, a stray, run over three times in a world of no compassion. After a long silence the cats began to wail, as if in grief. Almost in an anguished chorus, the stray cats wailed, as if the mourn the loss of one of them, just a stray, a survivor till that night. And as the cats wailed, I listened, even then chilled by the sound.

Till the cats turned silent and began to leave, some of them walking away slowly, others just running and disappearing into the camouflage of darkness. I remained where I was and just looked on as the cats disappeared. One cat stayed close by, hardly more than a kitten. It seemed to look at me, to watch me for a few seconds, then it walked away, alone, a young survivor in a hard and heartless world.

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All the reasons why I hated and will always hate 2007

In a matter of hours, the year 2007 will come to a close. It's been a hard year, a bad year, a cruel year. So here are the reasons why I hated and will always hate 2007.

1. I lost my dearest Almond. With her gone, a light within me was extinguished, at least in this existence. Things will never be the same. Or really good again. Then again, all that started in 2005, with the loss of Boobie.

2. I was unproductive. I produced nothing of real value this year.

3. I was hospitalized for eight days. It put a drain on just about everyone's resources.

4. I had no new clients.

5. I barely earned. It's a miracle (or a curse?) that I even survived this year.

6. I quit drinking. Without the oblivion of hard drink, the pain has become so much worse.

So here's to this awful year ending. The problems kept coming; even now as the year's about to end, they still do.

2007, I flush you down the septic tank. You were unusually cruel.

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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