By Rex Catubig

 

THE eastern sky began to darken at 2p.m. Soon after, an ominous burst of thunder warned of a heavy downpour. By that time, it was already raining gallons in Sta Barbara; and Urdaneta was also getting drenched. It was imminent, it was just a matter of time before the horrendous rain clouds hit Dagupan.

I was disheartened. Why does it seem to rain whenever I host a patio party? I was beyond comforting. The hive of planning and preparation was about to be subverted by the last of the northeast monsoon squalls.

But faith in the fatherly concern of St Joseph, being his feast day, brought a measure of comfort. Perhaps the good father would not spoil a son’s birthday–and Ermin had been a good son by all measures. And to bolster our arsenal of defense, St Expeditus was a prayer away, ready to the rescue to keep the party from being doused to oblivion.

Just before 5pm, the morose sky began clearing up. That precluded the desperate need to strike a Faustian deal. We’ve been covered by Heaven’s benevolence.

Indeed, the party was granted a celestial chance to go on. And whether he would  gallantly acquiesce or stand in denial, it would be on record that it was Ermin’s 70’s threshold.

He had been a reluctant celebrator, uneasy about having a party in his honor. So, we had to euphemistically call it a simple dinner among friends, lovers and associates, to appease him.

Oh, but the menu went the whole nine yards: Ribeye grilled to medium perfection vied for attention with the grilled buttered giant prawns. Red and white wine poured for pairing, and a Black Label provided libation for the boys. Shucked oysters and ceviche with tortillas made sure the palate was well prepared for the rich entrees. And there was strawberry cheesecake and fruit salad to temper the palate after.

But the apogee of the party was when the piece de resistance, the petite strawberry cake, was brought in, and everyone around the table burst into the Happy Birthday song. By then, it was evident, unsure or not he might be, that he was, after all, well pleased.

Corona protocol precluded blowing his birthday candle, so he put out the flame by gingerly pinching the wick with his fingers. Then Eli’s bottle of Asti was popped open, the cork shooting into the garden. The blue goblets were filled with the golden sparkling and raised up high. And amid a chorus of Happy Birthday, we proposed a joyous toast to another milestone of Dagupan’s fair-haired son and clinked our glasses.

It was a party we had hoped would be celebrated yearly, especially once the pandemic was over. We did a couple of times, not the least aware that we were marking time. Not as a countdown to more years ahead, nor to more years to be lived. Rather, unwittingly enacting a prelude to a rite of passage, that is untimely yet inevitable, unpredictable, inescapable.

The birthday wishes have turned into bye-bye birth. Yet our goodbye is predicated on perpetuity. It’s farewell to life, but not to the wonderful memories it holds, to the love that defied definition, that did not falter and surrender to convention. And in a poetic romantic turn, was sanctioned by a gracious cosmic wink.

It’s a perennial remembrance of the esoteric 43. Of the moniker Pining.  You would have chuckled and broken into a mischievous smile had you known why I call you that.

These and many more would be fodder for dinner conversation on your birthday cycle.

No more dark eastern sky and monsoon squalls. Just sunburst at sunset, and an incandescent full moon to make the nostalgic evening aglow. And should there break an unexpected drizzle, we’d know it’s Heaven’s violin playing staccato strings that mimic our pitter-pattering heartbeat, the syncopated rhythm that composes the resonant interweaving theme of love and friendship.

Happy birthday forever!

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