Crossing Roads

A man around the age of thirty-two stared out his window beside the ‘shotgun seat’.  It was around a quarter past eight in his watch and he felt drops of sweat coming down from the side of his face as he endured the traffic they were now experiencing.  He wanted to drive by himself yet his brother persisted on taking him to the airport.  He knew that his family was just scared– scared that he might think of committing suicide after the death of his wife.  His wife, the very symbol of beauty, intelligence, and the hearth.  People would tell him before that he had married a woman equal to three goddesses while he joked that it’s four, including Hera being a very powerful woman.  It was her only flaw as she would sometimes overpower him and make him feel small.  Yet no matter which goddess she would be compared to, he knew that she was his Goddess and he was her God.

“Are you alright kuya?” a low voice called him out from the depths of his thoughts.  It was his younger brother.  People would often mistake his younger brother to be his kuya.

“Kuya?”

“Yes, I’m fine.  I was just thinking about the victims of Yolanda.  They look so pitiful.”  He lied.

“That’s why you’re going to Tacloban to help them.”  His brother said not knowing about the things that was going through his mind.

He replied with a smile as he went back to staring out his window.  Maybe his family was right, he might have those suicidal thoughts yet one thing kept him holding on to his life.  It was his promise to his wife and he did not want to disappoint her even though now she was six feet underneath.

He scratched his chin as he attempted to fix his position to a more comfortable one.  He heard something fell and tried to peek between his feet only to find out that it was his diary that fell.  No, he was not gay as most people think when a guy owned a diary.  He owned one because both of them had promised to write down their adventures and later compile it for their child to listen to, as bedtime stories.  He was already near the end of his diary.  Just

 24 more pages– the same number of days before the birthday of their missing child.  Their one and only adorable little child.

***

A little girl possibly at the age of eight peeked from behind the piles of broken chairs that some adults had placed to one side in order to accommodate more space in the center of the room.  The room was now her so-called home for the meantime.  She was one of those few children who survived the disastrous event.  Those who once called their school a second home, is now their only home for the time being.

She became misty-eyed as flashes of memories passed by her mind: Pictures of people already dead, the voices of people who shouted for help, strong winds that tried to push her down, the stench of dirty water and the taste of blood as she tried to bite her tongue in fear.  It was all too tragic and too much for someone her age.  Yet she wanted to stay strong like her idol, Teodora Alonzo, the mother of Jose Rizal.

***

A woman in her thirties sat down on her worn-out bed after she had fixed her things inside her backpack.  She scanned through her room to check if there was anything left.  She was now determined to flee from that place.  The place where they had made good memories but were shattered by the devious earthquake.  She wiped her tears as she looked at their picture together.  Flashbacks that were like yesterday flooded her vision.  A man in his tuxedo who gently assisted her as they walked in front of the priest.  The exchange of “I do,” then there was the sudden shaking of the whole Baclayon Church.  People started running while shouting “Earthquake!” as they tried to exit the said church.  She could not run too fast with her heels on.  She was never the type of girl to use those shoes but she wore one for her wedding, their wedding.  Her soon to be husband carried her and brought her out but just in time he had placed her down, debris fell down on him leaving him in coma and later on brought him to his death.