16 July 2014

Glenda's visit

Many might begin their story the way I will: Glenda woke me up with her winds. But perhaps only I would continue it this way.


My fortress's two sources of power:
a fully-charged MacBook and a scented candle
While nervous curiosity and fright were felt, I knew I was safe from where I was, at home—or as a friend joked, in my fortress.

And I returned to the safety of sleep.

When I woke again, it was past noon. The rain was no more and so was Glenda's singing. Taking their place was sadness.

For in my world and for who I am, this typhoon was a brief respite from normalcy.


When I was in grade school, already slothful at a young age, I was too anxious of homework, projects, recitations, and imagined death as a way out. ‘What if I died? Then I’d be free from all this (I didn’t have a name for it then, but the word that best signifies the signified is) responsibility.’ But at that age I already understood as well that reality is disappointing and even death would not come to save the day.

So I would be smiling a sweet, happy smile when, very early in the morning, my father would come to my bed and say, ‘Sleep some more, classes were suspended’.

The difference between then and now is back then, I would completely enjoy the rainy day.

Yes I get to savour brewing coffee, reading essays and chapters of a book, but these sweet pauses are now interrupted by thoughts of tasks—tomorrow, within the week, in the following months and years that death will allow me to live.


Again, I am a lucky girl. This calamity, just like previous calamities, is but an inconvenience. Truth is I found a new appreciation for blackouts, because concern floats and of course, the quiet—in color and tone.

Because, really, what do you go back to when the power is back? —The same routine, the same excesses, the same noises.


This storm is going to be memorable for its winds and for its kindness. I used to work in a BPO company and during Typhoon Milenyo, we were expected to report for duty. Today, two of my superiors called to say, ‘Stay home’ the way a father would whisper, ‘Go back to sleep’ to a child who was never ready to grow up.

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