the one with my last Magni article

kalendaryo

How bizarre it is for days (and nights) to disappear just like that—every minute, all five hundred, twenty five thousand and six hundred of them dashed past as the dates came off the wall with a coarse crumpling sound, chucked into the trashcan like they were nothing. And the memory of that rainy day in June, about four years ago became more vivid than ever—that when emerald neckties were disposed of (with relief) and the shoots of the magnificent bamboo stood proud as if to welcome its newly-found company (not that we were going to stay that long anyway).

And a surge rushes to the head as though to remember (like I ever forgot) hordes of students lined up in that gym for the first time, streaks of yellow shining at their brightest—them who never lost brilliance even as the banana shirts gradually turned white. We never really knew of the haphazardly thought of recalls bringing back the four years as though it was only yesterday—like Calachuchi caught in the hair, or bits of leftover tape stuck to the blackboard. This is all we have now. This is all we have. Hints of leftover coffee over a night’s worth of term paper, a green skirt pooling on the laundry, snapshots of everyone—from over accessorized promenade dolls to candid half-asleep dweebs on the excursion to Los Baños, or dead-cold frustrated attempts of taking a bath in Baguio, perhaps.

Scraps of yellow crepe reminded me of sweaty afternoons of vibrant cheering on the benches alongside breaths held in trepidation. There were scrawled notes wedged off planners and textbooks (though half their number was intercepted by Ms. so-and so) and palanca letters and past debut invitations now set aside. A classmate whined for someone wrote seniors rock! on her rubber shoe and unidentified feet marks were on the teachers table. A spot on the field remains warm from where we lay, and a familiar song plays once more—look at the stars, how they shine for you…

There were impatiently ripped envelopes bearing replies from coveted universities (some though, were intentionally ripped). Sometimes I thought that it is a pushover, to turn hats into boa constrictors as compared to skinning frogs, or plotting Cartesian planes out of anything. Sometimes I told myself, “This is the last time I am eating this greasy burger” and found myself eating the next day—a greasy burger. Sometimes I thought that the faces on my gradpic collection would no longer be within my reach someday, as everyone seemed to be taken in one direction: away. Instantly I was burning images of everyone in my head just so I remember them this way—young, vulnerable, beautiful…

Finally, I realized what was happening—I was beginning to miss.

A piece of crumpled paper glints at me from the can. March 21, 2004, it read.

the one with my last Magni article

kalendaryo

How bizarre it is for days (and nights) to disappear just like that—every minute, all five hundred, twenty five thousand and six hundred of them dashed past as the dates came off the wall with a coarse crumpling sound, chucked into the trashcan like they were nothing. And the memory of that rainy day in June, about four years ago became more vivid than ever—that when emerald neckties were disposed of (with relief) and the shoots of the magnificent bamboo stood proud as if to welcome its newly-found company (not that we were going to stay that long anyway).

And a surge rushes to the head as though to remember (like I ever forgot) hordes of students lined up in that gym for the first time, streaks of yellow shining at their brightest—them who never lost brilliance even as the banana shirts gradually turned white. We never really knew of the haphazardly thought of recalls bringing back the four years as though it was only yesterday—like Calachuchi caught in the hair, or bits of leftover tape stuck to the blackboard. This is all we have now. This is all we have. Hints of leftover coffee over a night’s worth of term paper, a green skirt pooling on the laundry, snapshots of everyone—from over accessorized promenade dolls to candid half-asleep dweebs on the excursion to Los Baños, or dead-cold frustrated attempts of taking a bath in Baguio, perhaps.

Scraps of yellow crepe reminded me of sweaty afternoons of vibrant cheering on the benches alongside breaths held in trepidation. There were scrawled notes wedged off planners and textbooks (though half their number was intercepted by Ms. so-and so) and palanca letters and past debut invitations now set aside. A classmate whined for someone wrote seniors rock! on her rubber shoe and unidentified feet marks were on the teachers table. A spot on the field remains warm from where we lay, and a familiar song plays once more—look at the stars, how they shine for you…

There were impatiently ripped envelopes bearing replies from coveted universities (some though, were intentionally ripped). Sometimes I thought that it is a pushover, to turn hats into boa constrictors as compared to skinning frogs, or plotting Cartesian planes out of anything. Sometimes I told myself, “This is the last time I am eating this greasy burger” and found myself eating the next day—a greasy burger. Sometimes I thought that the faces on my gradpic collection would no longer be within my reach someday, as everyone seemed to be taken in one direction: away. Instantly I was burning images of everyone in my head just so I remember them this way—young, vulnerable, beautiful…

Finally, I realized what was happening—I was beginning to miss.

A piece of crumpled paper glints at me from the can. March 21, 2004, it read.