This show must go on!

By Emmanuelle

Count the city and the towns within this district, and you come out with less than ten digits. With forty-four towns and four cities comprising six districts of the province, this hint would make it a little harder for you to identify the community I shall write about.

I hope so. I pray so. For the reason that I am more than a little torn between two of my friends here.

The candidates for the hotly contested mayoral seat of this community are my friends. One was a friend of so-many years standing, the other is of just the recent years.

Years ago, the first friend was a young entrepreneur beginning to make his mark in the world of business. He and my older sister, a doctor, were the shy, conservative, industrious types. Nang nagsawa kahihintay, our moms, who were the best of friends, decided to take over the scheme of things by manually maneuvering the stars. In short, the kibitzing moms decided to enter into a parental arrangement of sorts. I was appointed official chaperon. Actually, I appointed myself. I had such deep passion for Chinese food. And they did always end their dates clicking chopsticks.

Disappointingly, nothing more passionate than food-tasting   materialized. He and my sister shied away from each other, in guilt and embarrassment, but he and I stayed friends. To him, I was always “the funny little sister”. We went through one EDSA, a kidnapping, my own stint as a wide-eyed entrepreneur, a lot of social   involvement, and his eventual entry into politics.

In the beginning, he bore the brunt of losing twice. On his third try, I told him he would make it. He did.

At this point, our friendship, though not cold, was put on-hold. Politicians are creatures of my outer space. While we do not exactly bristle at sight, we also do not a leche-flan make.

 My relationship with the recent friend was borne out of grief and womanly camaraderie. Though I knew her, I wasn’t of her immediate circle which was intensely political. Though I heard of her young daughter’s death, I wasn’t knowledgeable about the circumstances before that death. Moreover, I was provinces away.  Then, one night after another, the dead young one appeared in my dreams so beautifully radiant, saying “tell Mom it’s okay”.

When I met the Mom to tell her of the dreams, then and only then did I come to know the story behind the message. A dead child drew me into her Mom’s very private grief. And to other INAs who also lost their dear young ones.

And so, we go back to the beginning of the article. These two friends are tearing me apart, figuratively. Literally, too.

These two, ironically, were also formerly the best of friends themselves. So it’s true. Sometimes, the best of friends do make the worst of enemies.

Let me ask you then, how can you mend a broken friendship, especially when it is not yours to mend? Then, how can you mend a friendship that one has broken by believing then disbelieving, and to settle the discrepancies between lies and truth, one chooses to  follow  the whisper of  one’s heart? 

Till I get my answers, I shall watch. These battles of wits and strategies. This war worth millions… ubusan to the last cent.

A war that had already cost more than one friendship lost.

(For past columns, click http://sundaypunch.prepys.com/archives/category/opinion/feelings/)

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