By Rex Catubig

 

LIKE an exclamation point to the shrill wheezing of the disc grinder cutting through the metal tubes for my fence , a ping sounded on my messenger that opened to a very casual message asking if I could accommodate a merienda meeting among a couple of friends. No special reason given except “just to reminisce the old days”. It seemed like an antidote to Alzheimer’s was in the offing. Adding further a comment that the “dinuguan” served at my brother’s during a “padasal” would be a good conversation booster. Well, subsequently proving to be a culinary symbol of what would turn out as a renewal of a friendship blood compact–as we joyfully recalled the intertwined stories of our life.

So okay, Tuesday afternoon, as my workers packed up for the day, the coven of four romantic spirits descended on my yet to be finished backyard for the witching hour.

Carpe diem was the ruling theme. Seize the day. And like children let loose to play, the group of romantics excitedly posed all over the place and lovingly captured the fleeting moment in a multitude of prismatic images fit for a time capsule–set against the nostalgic backdrop of a waning harvest twilight –resonating with the whispers and whimpers of past life.

And when it was time for all to take their seats around the yellow rectangular table to partake of the pot luck and libation, the conversation flitted frivolously between the gross and the sublime, the joys and heartaches, of love and betrayal, the wrenching letting go and stubborn holding on, the wild abandon of untamed heart and shattering into pieces of the lovelorn self.

And finally, like a symphonic rondo, the conclave declared boisterously their personal triumphs and redemptive hosannas, and in the calm after the storm, their moving on to unchartered territories that subsequently became the home where the heart is and where it should be.

Despite or because of all this, we have remained steadfast, true warriors and survivors of life and love’s cruel vicissitudes.

Though the joke was on us, we embody the cliche that we wear our scars like a badge of valor.

Because, we have refused to be defeated. And we have chosen to be happy. Oh, how we laughed and laughed away all our indiscretions and ill-advised actions. Just by laughing hard, we have successfully exorcised our demons.

Thus, in the autumn of our life, we gather the flamboyant foliage of a dying tree, and we wear their changing colors with pride.

Confident, that even as the drying leaves fall, and our soul becomes bare, upon our battered naked self, shall life bloom again gloriously and burst forth in defiant resurrection.

 

(Editor’s note: Mr. Catubig explains word “Entre’acte”. In theater it’s the intermission between acts. In life, the pause, the break between waking and dreaming. When the mind is free to wander and meander, and remember).

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