The Flood of Grief and the Bridge of Acceptance

I was the type of person who hid pain beneath my eyelids. I would hide under my bed; wrap myself in
thick and furry blankets, as if to be seen is the worst thing that could ever happen to me. My mother
would wish that time will pass, and the water that I held back for ages will pour out like water trapped in
a dam breaking; cleansing me along its way. I would sometimes go to the museum, and countless art
pieces greeted me like I’m a cousin from out of town and a man whose palms ripped his chest open like a
door, leaving his hardened heart on a display. I laughed at the thought of how unfair it was that the
sculpture is braver than me.

I went outside to buy dinner; scared to be seen by none that ever knew such an idiot like me existed in a
world with a population of billions. The heaviness I carried on my shoulder was nothing compared to the
heavy drops of rain my umbrella is carrying. The road feels like a secret place overlooking in the streets
and the black infinity above with its stars twinkling like they’re idols dancing in a stage filled with a
crowd of people who admire them. I sometimes wish that I was a star and wonder how it feels like to be
admired even when there’s multitude of darkness around you.

I went home with my newly-showered slippers as my mother welcomed me with her thunderstorms of
madness in front of our wooden door. With her thin knitted brows and gritting teeth, I can already picture
the fight she made with my father. She sometimes forgets that their marriage is a love story and never a
warzone. They act like the Constitution who grants congress the sole power to declare a war and generals
demanding their soldiers to shoot each other with their problems that can be fixed with a little talk. I
found it funny that she tells her amigos proudly that they are lovers but they sometimes forget they’re in
love. She would smile and put on her best faces into those strangers she calls ‘friends’, and I’m putting on
far too many to be counted. At times, the mask becomes too heavy and my eyes would sting every time I
keep them on and I wonder desperately how it feels like to take it off and remove layers after layers until
there is nothing left of me.

I covered my ears tightly with my hands as I tried to sleep. The night prepared me a fancy meal for
dinner in a white and shiny plate made in glass regardless with all things that keeps me awake:
thunderstorms, heavy rain, and the cries of birds near the tree outside my window. But from a moment on,
I fell asleep forcing myself to believe that the birds shrieking are lullabies sang by my late grandmother.
They would flap their wings out of the cold breeze of air, and their mother would shelter them with her
feathers and warmth and it have reminded me of a certain movie I cannot recall.
 In my dream, they interviewed the primary suspect for drug abuse and massacre. The victim’s mother
shouted at him in despair and anger, “How could you do such an inhuman thing?” Yet he only smirked
and stood saying he just felt like it. I woke up with my nails digging my palm like it’s about to plant a
seed that grows a wild tree of questions and disappointment. I looked outside my moist window and saw
stars peeking outside in such a breathtaking display. The trees would dance cotillion with the wind and
the birds would sing La Belle Poule. I asked the dark sky why am I aching this much yet the sky only
crackled loudly with its lightning of my question back at me like I had known the answer myself. How
have I not known this time that it hurts so much to be alive?

I stood up the bed in curiosity of how silent it was at 8:45 in the morning when my parents have made
arguing their morning routine that mustn’t be skipped. I slapped myself with the idea of “You’re just too
preoccupied hearing the tempest instead of their screams of arguments.” I still have loved them with
everything I had; I have swallowed dozens of their love of hatred towards me. No wonder I have been
broken this entire time, I have taken oceans when love should always be taken with spoonful. I’d rather
drown in gasoline and catch fire until it burns my soul or banish to the horizon between the earth and the
sea than to ever witness myself slowly burning in hate. I went to the bathroom and did my routine that
involves nothing but solely looking at the mirror and realizing everyday how dirty I was, like how my
skin is filled with dirt of scars and bruises people with their fake faces have sculpted. Rubbing my eyes
and yawning, I went outside my bedroom to prepare myself a breakfast of hunger only to starve.

I was more than stunned to see a pool of furniture and appliances swimming in our house like they’re
kids having fun in summer vacation at their favorite beach resort. My heart beats louder and louder as I
took a step closer. The wooden-made floor shriek as I held directly at the staircase carrying a river of fear
and nightmare. Even the future well-created robots cannot count how many times I slapped myself as I
harshly pull my hair to wake up. But no matter how many times I scream at terror the water kept on rising
and rising. My eyes roamed around with tears lingering like it’s about to explode in madness. I feel like a
lone wolf howling at the moon with eagerness and hope to hear my parents howl back “I’m here!” Yet my
fantasies stopped the moment I saw two bodies floating in the water. The lightning exclaimed, the
thunderstorms roar, and the wind burst like it’s grieving with me. All the energy I have left feels like it’s
being sucked by the dead bodies of my parents right in front of me and the emptiness I’m feeling was
filled with the newly-bought pain I paid with the sins I made. I fell right on my knees; my heart feels like
an empty bottle being squeezed and used paper being crumpled. The water hit my feet so fast like it’s
dying to reach our roof. I ran and ran until all I can ever step at was my bed beside the window. I looked
outside and discover continents of our town I never knew existed. My phone rang and vibrated in repeat
with the NDRRMC announcing that there’s a flood and the water is already below knee level when it
swallowed entirely the first floor of our house.
 The dead plants and animals floated around along with the water storming in rage exposing their bodies
like our town is a flooding museum and they are to be admired by those who would like to see us suffer.
Outside looks like an ocean with its waves hitting the roof of their houses. My eye caught a family of
three in the top of their roofs and they hugged each other assuring themselves that it will soon be over. I
sobbed in pain as I remember the bodies of my parents, it’s too impossible to be like them who protects
each other with their words of trust and their feelings of love. The family in front of me looked at me with
love like they’re extending their bones built in hope together to create a bridge for me to join them and
feel safe. Their eyes shouts concern, yet mine shouts “I don’t deserve your love.”

I closed my eyes in fear for they might see a tomb of people I once was but a large force of wave hit
them before I could even connect my bones to them. The last trace of their smile disappeared and the last
hope I had fell in the flood of death. I shook my head and convinced myself that it’s all a nightmare I
cannot escape at but my mind has also become a flooding town and no one came rushing in with their
boat of pity. The water hit my chin; I couldn’t explain how numb my body was with multiple of scratches
the flood painted in me. I tried so hard not to even cry for my tears might contribute to the flood, I
couldn’t even bring myself to breathe. I watched the stars shine and smiled bitterly on how billions of
people wanted to reach them but only few are willing to build wings to fly them. The black hole of
darkness swallowed the town and the flood of grief devoured me. I have never met life like this.

Paper, Pen, and a Writer

 Sometimes, I would listen to sad songs that are on repeat and start to feel like my skin is evaporating
with the music. My favorite color as a child was yellow, and my favorite flower looks like the sun before
I realized it’s brighter and colorful than what I deserved. The sky would explode, spitting paint all over
my window but I’m too occupied thinking where to write my thoughts when I don’t own a single paper
and a bit of an ink. Perhaps I could pick up different colored flowers and turn them into crayons to not
only color my life but to also color the images my teacher tasked me to do.

I’d sew my bag used from year-to-year just so worn threads will have a bit of support when it’ll only
contain my assignment I failed to do. Dirty old shoes, crumpled clothes, stained shirt, and a messy dry
hair. Yet an honest smile appears on my dry lip that was always seen wry. I was never the type of kid that
would rather die than to show up in class without any pencil. I learned to write in my head without
worrying if I might ever forget them. There’s this time when out teacher asked us to write what we’d
want to be in the future in a piece of paper but there’s merely three words I can ever think of. Paper, pen,
writer.

My mother felt pressured thinking where to get my school supplies as my teacher told her how much I
struggled to study like she’s telling a tale from her grandmother’s old dusty books. Her eyes dropped as it
exclaimed sadness the moment she’s told she also needed to pay for my uniform as if it’s out of her
knowledge that were indigence people and the poorest of the poor. Public school isn’t really free when
they demand books and other supplies that the school is obligated to give. Perhaps they are just too
distracted that they thought our presence is enough for us to learn what they expected.

At times I’d talk alone and ask myself if I’d ever be given a chance to write, or maybe even learn how
to without using my mind as paper. With stares overflowing with displease, I felt alienated as students
walk around with their own group of friends with their clean and well-ironed uniform. They’ll sometimes
ask me to sit with them once the clock strikes exactly eleven-thirty as the bell shouts lunch, and they’ll
laugh at me with pointing fingers knowing well-enough that we cannot afford a meal.

Heaven’s gate opened as the principal’s microphone echoed the arrival of “NGO” and “Politicians”
with the eyes around them at the center of the stage. Its white and heavenly stairs appear as if the
destination was exactly where my foot stood. There arrived a carousel filled with papers, pens, and a
castle of school supplies. They’d give it to students with a wide smile and open arms. They’d hand me
multiple notebooks in a plastic with several pens laying at it like it’s their comfy bed. A plastic of
envelope with crayons and pencil would peek through it and people might think I’m hallucinating once
I’ve mentioned the supplies were smiling at me.

I went home as my mother approached me. A smile plastered for she no longer felt pressured where to
get money for school supplies. I opened the plastic carefully as well as the opportunity that was waiting
for me. Now that I own a paper and a pen, all there’s left is to learn, and to be a writer.

Shells that echo Learning

 Some days I feel like my body is a hollow shell and my screams are echoing inside that I am still
learning. Millions of worlds have been built in my mind and all of them are different versions of me
finding a good quality education under my pillows in exchange for teeth. I would sit in my seat at the
back of the classroom trying to recall what’s our last lesson without opening my notes for it has been a
week since it was last discussed. In a week with only two to three days of classes, I felt like a student
struggling to fight learning gaps.

I’ve taken root in normal-sched classes and built a cozy home inside; it makes me feel as if I’m late and
leaving classes when I’m at home during weekdays. I would get jealous over other students who doesn’t
experience learning gaps, and sometimes ask them how it feels. I would ask my friend from other schools
and ask them to compare lessons, and that made me realize how late the lesson I was having difficulty in
trying to learn.

I was told that it wasn’t hard to learn, and I believed it without doubts to even disagree. I tried to study
advance lessons at home with the idea of having new things to learn on a specific subject I struggled that I
would play it on repeat until YouTube give up on me, but it only gave me headaches. I felt as if there’s a
part of me that’s missing and only normal days of learning could fill it. Perchance, maybe people are
visually impaired to even discern or grasp that the education system is the main problem. Many students
are lacking knowledge, and DepEd lacks teachers, they lack facilities to provide students a better learning
quality. Maybe I deserve an apology to myself for putting my hands tightly over my mouth when I have
been waiting patiently to be heard, finally.

The untamed Storms of Christmas

 Some days happen to be so expeditious that I haven’t noticed it was Christmas Eve until I heard the
plates making such sounds only my mother would do when preparing for meals. The smell of sweet
candies would reach my nose and the different voices of kids would bring such an innocent music to my
ears though it’s only a record kept by my father.

Bells would ring in my ear with melodies as old familiar carols play. My sister would jump in the coach
filled with excitement as she opened the television only to watch Christmas-based films and my
grandmother would sit next to me and tell me about her “Christmas story” she told me every Christmas.

I would hear my sister throw tantrums and her reason was “I can’t hear the TV!” at its maximum
volume. The tempest broke in terror and fury as thunderstorms started to throw tantrums as well. The
storm would tear up the pine trees and shatters oak, yet the hummingbirds hovered within hours, drinking
clear rain from trumpet flowers near our windows. I can imagine the violent rage of waves as it hits the
shore. The sky was way too dark to be compared to black, I can’t barely see any star peeking through
clouds like its watching people celebrate Christmas.

The water started to rise with my father’s patience waiting for the NDRRMC to announce. My mother
screamed at the top of her lungs as the power went off. Thunderstorms started to roar louder and so is the
untamed wind. My father was filled with worriedness the second the rising water outside the window
greet him like an old friend coming for a visit from out of town. The storms were so loud that they can
barely hear each other but his father’s phone rang alert, only when the water was high enough that they
are unable to evacuate or spend Christmas.