Requiem to an Abused Child By Emmanuelle The first part of this true story was published last Sunday, June 11.  To continue: Maybe, for the first time in his young life, and in the house yet of complete strangers, this abused child experienced how it was to be home. He…

Requiem to an Abused Child By Emmanuelle This writer is neither the singer nor the reason for this song. The story and the memories do not belong to her. But in the process of retelling – she lived through it. So, in the final requiem, the story and the song…

Woman, P. I. By Emmanuelle In-between writing this and writing that is a lot of time spent in . . . more writing. Sleep is a luxury, food is fruit popped into the mouth to stave off hypoglaecemia, drink is canned preferably diet, jogging is juggling the mind for ideas,…

When fathers cry By Emmanuelle The Feelings article for this week was all ready for e-mail; it would have gone merrily on its way to Sunday Punch on this day of the endless deadlines. It was one of those “funny but nobody is laughing” topics; I was still floating on…

Not done with Math By Emmanuelle Math is life; life is math. Math may be as simple as counting two hands, the left and the right; or it may be the most difficult, most complicated brainwork mortal man does in his life. Take this example for a starter: 1 +…

Do your Math By Emmanuelle Life is math itself; math is life itself. Life is defined or explained by mathematics; mathematics is defined or explained by life. This is the principle of scientific determinism, the predictability of life itself. I know most of you would blanch white, blankity blank, black…

A father’s daughter By Emmanuelle These feet have walked, jogged, then wandered, wondered far and wide – miles and miles of all kinds of man-laid paths – sandy, dusty, or pebbled trails; paved, tiled, or brick-laid roads; darkly, grainy, meltingly oily, shimmering asphalt; evenly, heavenly hi-ways. A few feet above…

Paint the pain away By Emmanuelle You have heard of how Ina Foundation works. I have seen the Ina Foundation at work. This is an extraordinary bonding of women whose sole requirement for membership – one has to have lost a child – I would not even dare to contemplate…

I  wannabe By Immanuelle Take this story. A little boy cuddles up to his grandfather. The grandfather, who is also the town’s mayor, plays with the child’s hair. Idly, the grandfather asks: “What would you like to be when you grow up?” “I wanna sit on your chair.” The grandfather…

Thorns with my Roses By Emmanuelle “Tita, why do roses have thorns/” Joel, my eight-year old nephew asks me just now, a Palm Sunday morning, while we are both watering the garden. Actually, we are both playing with the hose, letting its sprinkle dance this way and there, daydreaming over…