The Diary

By Emmanuelle

THIS is the story of a reader. It somehow found its way to me.

Our father died when I was a third grader. Widowed early in her early thirties, Ina supported my two siblings and I through the earnings of our boarding house that can accommodate up to twelve at a time, four in each of the three rooms at the top of the stairs. The fourth room is for our family of four plus my mother’s old maid twin-sister.

Tita Iya came to us when my father was dying. Since then, she never left us. We would not have survived the tragedy if she left to accept any of her job offers. She was a much-sought-after culinary artist. And so, with her around, the family got to its feet again and the house donned on the smell of oven roasts, of fruity upside-down cakes and oven biscuits that melt at first tongue.

During weekends, Tita Iya and the housemaid have their two-day off, an arrangement that my mother insisted on.

So, it was in one of these weekend scrubbing frenzies that I happened to stumble on a loose floorboard in one of the boarders’ rooms. With Tita Iya, the maid and the boarders on weekend pass, and with Ina and my siblings busy elsewhere, I had no witness to my curiosity.

I dropped down to my knees. I pried out the offending strip of wood. From the narrow space between floor and ceiling, I tugged out a plastic packet tied with a thin yellow ribbon. Oy, Ninoy, I thought. I untwined the ribbon. I pulled out three sheets of yellowed papers starched crisp through passage of time and forever dusk. The third and the second were more ancient than the first page on top. Each sheet flowed with neat lines of handwritten scripts, some clear, but most blurry or smudged in spots.

The bottom sheet read: Today is our graduation from sixth grade. We had said our goodbyes, he will be off to the Visayas with his family. I know he has no choice but to go; but not having a choice does not make the letting go any easier. I said goodbye to him with my eyes and a rose from my bouquet. I saw him look at me then to my sister Ina, then he says goodbye to us with his eyes and two orchids from his corsage.

The middle page read: Today I say farewell to high school. Though we are all sad, I am more glad! He is here! He is with his cousins who graduate with my class! I talk to him with my eyes. I grasp tight his hands, oh thank you, you are here!  Four years had gone past and fast, no one got to own my heart. It waited and still waits for you. He talked to me, then to my sister with his eyes. I fear he grasped her hands more tightly than he grasped mine.

The front sheet read: Today he weds her. Today I have not one but two hearts to hold dear. Two hearts to keep together the cracked pieces of my heart. Cannot they see me dropping teary piece after another as I drag myself around? But I love her; she is half of me. And I love him; he is the whole of me. Oh, dear ones, hold me tight, hug me tighter. For your sakes, I must not unravel !

Then my reader-storyteller goes on: I saw the scene, I heard the sounds of the past. The what and the why answered. When my father died, among his papers was an unaddressed letter. It read: I promised myself I will never write this. I promised myself you will never have to read this. But I struggled to wake up when I sensed you were near and no one else. I watched you cry and pray and whisper to my ears: be strong my love, live for me as I lived for you!

You thought I never saw your love for me in your eyes? You and I always talked through our eyes! I saw! And I saw you blink and look down when you saw the same love in her eyes, for me and for you.

You refused to fight for me, for us. You sacrificed yourself for her. You pushed me to her. And so, she stamped me owned.

I was not yours to sacrifice, the physics that was me!

When I am gone, open your eyes. And see! You had not claimed me for your own, but always you owned my heart. And my soul shall hover till it finds its true mate in the hereafter. You. It has always been you.

Sometimes when it rains hard, the tears get lost in the pour.

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