Days of the dead for the living

Undas has become my least favorite holiday. It all started 3 years ago when death became more real to me than it originally was.

The first time I had to face my brother's "pad" on the first of November--until now, I can't find a euphemism for "tomb", thus the word "pad"--I felt a sharp knife stab my heart. I could not stop the stream of tears from flowing.

Nichi passed away on a July, roughly four months prior to the most painful November first of my life. For that long, I tried to make myself believe that Nichi was just on vacation somewhere far.

Seeing the name of my brother on the slab of black tile mounted among other black tiles with names of unfamiliar dead people sealed everything. It was a slap on my face. Harsh and true.

Three years after, the pain is still there. Staring at his "wall" with the silver inscriptions of his beginning and end, of his face, of the flowers we wouldn't normally give him if he were still his old active self--it reminds me of what I've lost. It makes me wonder what he would have been like if he were still around. How he'd be dealing with his classes which he attended by heart. How many more friends he'd be gaining, given his congenial personality. How many songs he can sing. All of which will remain a mystery. Unanswered. Perhaps forever.



This is in memory of Nichi...the eternally 13-year-old boy who will forever stay alive in my heart.