Looking Back

By Rolo B. Cena

By happenstance, I met Markus in one of the thriving night squares of the City.  It’s where we and another friend, Karl, frequented when we were younger buddies then.  Since I left the city, I never heard from them.  

There wasn’t much guests trailing around the night square tonight and the hubbubs were just tolerable though I spotted some of my colleagues from the conference I was attending. It used to be the center of nightlife where glitz and glam of the rich and famous adorned its facades.  In its heyday, the place was a marvel; these days, it’s just a place in an array of choices, especially for the millennials and the new genre.

We gladly agreed to spend the night in a familiar pizza parlor we previously fell in love with. I haven’t been to Bacolod for more than three decades and my curiosity grew intensely as I listened to him.  As he clutched to his seat, I noticed occasional etches of pain in his face each time he moved. This guy struggled a lot and I can see through his eyes what he endured all along:  An office clerk by day and a full time student by night, he survived his college degree and the economic requirement of his family.      

We talked much about the past and surprisingly the once no-talker now talked much but with a lot of sense.  Through the course of our chatting though, his behaviors made me suspect that something’s wrong.  I wanted to dismiss my suspicion and deduce that perhaps it’s all about the discipline I’d been into. On intervals, I would swerve to know more about Karl, which he would dutifully fill in the blanks.

Of the many wonders he recounted, it was his condition that amazed me more than his rise to an executive level. Markus has become all what he wanted to be and acquired all what he wanted to have, except for three things:  Stable marriage, bank account and good health.

Equally surprising was Karl’s fate.  It was by far the most intriguing update I ever have:  A rich kid married to our pretty co-worker who soon died of breast cancer. Karl and his wife were blessed with a son.  Suddenly, Karl’s gone and has remained at large until this day, away from the preying eyes of puzzled family members. 

Truly, success is relative. For most people, success could be having multi-million worth of mansion and possessing a fleet of cars, or having traveled around the world.  Only a few held the belief that success could just be having sent all kids to school and have them earned their degrees, and, and perhaps or, an impressive matter-of-factly good health in a golden age.

Back to Markus, perhaps he was just too cautious in narrating his page-by-page and cover-to-cover stories.  Or, maybe he thought that when our eyes met it was more than enough, after all, when we were younger, our eyes would converse more often than our lips would.  But I wanted to know more yet what he revealed was only a fraction of each contingent.  I believe, he wanted to prevent me from overthinking, as I used to as a friend; and he knew that.

Finally, he managed to deviate from my subject and inquired how has it been since I left in 1989, which I gladly responded particularly. He sighed, gazed outside and nodded:  “Yeah, it’s been a long time that we haven’t heard from you, too.  You left and came back and here you are, trying to make sense of what you’re missing – or, what we’re missing.” 

Later that night I’ve learned he’s termed, homeless, and alone.  As our eyes met once more, his was heavily teary.  Looking through his eyes, I could feel remorse and the unspoken urgency of adjourning the unplanned agenda just so to prevent all tears from dropping.  He lamented for having spent all his time and energy at work, at work, and at work.  Too bad, too late! 

While we were wrapping up to conclude the night, he softly recited the last lines of the poem I wrote for our college yearbook:  “Not all stones glitter; not even all those who wandered succeed.”

As I led him to the door and later parted ways, I was trying to decipher those barely audible lines using my most active of senses.  Before we disappeared from the night, I noticed him looked back at me one more time as if wanting to hear an affirmation for his recital.  I nodded and whispered to myself, “Indeed!”

A Grace of Two Women

By Rolo B. Cena

I have two women in my life.  Call me a concubine, but there’s nothing you can do about it.  Not even the divine creator who could slap me on my face for immoral action neither the law of men that can send me to jail.

She comes from the western part of the island, and she loves me, I knew that.  Oftentimes, she would remind me of my health saying health is the most precious resource I could ever have when all else fails.  She dictates, but I love her.

And she comes from the east.  She loves me, of course.  She gives me her best and gives me heaven made on earth.  She does remind me of my health more than the westerner does.  She watches my diet, reminds me of my health pills, and reminds me of my meals.  She reminds me of my appointments and my speaking engagements.  She reminds me of God.  Wonderful!

She nagged me before, I mean this westerner.  She does not encourage me to win; she hates to attend recognition seeing myself receiving plaques or medals.  She does not push.  To her, there is more to life than medals and honors.  She believes after all, fame, just like a glitter of stone, costs a lot.

Once in my life she nagged me, too.  She stops nagging me now, for one good reason we both know.  She encourages me to win; she likes to attend recognition.  She likes to see me receiving plaques or medals.  She pushes; but she could patiently wait.  This eastern lady endures with me for better or for worse.  She loves me more than the westerner does.  She swears eternal company, the one with no buts and ifs.  She reminds:  “Do what you believe is right.”  And I love her, too.

The western lady?  I seldom see her now, but she’s still there with open arms.  She still waits, she watches.  She still reminds me of this:  “Think.  You’re not getting any younger.”

Yes, they are my women.  It’s hard to choose.  As the old adage goes: “A man is born for a woman.”  But not in my case, it’s absolutely different.  I cannot live without them both.  I really can’t.  I mean I don’t want to choose one from the other.  I bet you would agree with me now.

The westerner is my mother, and the easterner is my wife.  These two women are doing great things for me, for my family, and for my life.  Each one changes me very differently.  My mother sings an old song, while my wife sings a new one for me.  That’s terrific!

My mother gave me life.  It’s a debt no life can repay and something I just can’t drop off in favor of the other.  What my mother had done to me is something I can never forget.  It’s written in the pages of my book.  There’s more to her than a mother.  She’s great!

My wife gives me new life.  She’s my twenty-four-by-seven guardian angel and co-worker.  She risks and gambles with me.  She’s my most loyal friend and trusted confidante.  She makes me feel complete; she gives me blissful happiness.  She’s more than just a woman, and a wife to me.

 It’s a grace of two women coming in one simple yet amazing package.  Not everyone has this kind of grace – wrapped in natural fabric of human kindness and laced with the glossy values of a meaningful, principle-centered life.

(Published, Dumaguete MetroPost, May 2005)