Menthol-Guy

When I saw myself typing

“I couldn’t live up

to Mom’s standards and it’s a royal

pain in the ass for both camps.

It’s really hard but I’m

trying. I’m really trying.

I’m sorry if I’m

such a burden. Really.”

I cried.

I try not to miss people.

I don’t know why or how I do it but it works. You see, before you even make friends with someone consider this fact: there will come a time when goodbyes are the right thing to say. It will always happen. So don’t cling too much. Brace for the things to come. Expect the worst things–she dying in a car crash, she dying in a train collision. Reserve a tiny bit of everything for yourself.

It’s as if to say you should think (or probably tell) all your eulogies about her while she’s still living.

It’s funny, but I don’t really feel anything right now. They go teary-eyed over things. I don’t. Sometimes I miss the feeling of missing people.

Naghihintay ako palagi. Naghihintay at nagyoyosi; naninigarilyo, hinihintay lumipas ang oras: sa tabi ng kalsada para sa jeep, sa mahahabang pila sa ATM, sa sukli sa isang tinderang kinulang ang barya, sa klaseng nakakaantok, sa mga eksenang dapat isulat, sa mga librong dapat basahin. Kada buga ay ang inaasam-asam na sandaling darating ang hinihintay.

Minsan nakita ko ang sarili kong nakaupo sa gitna ng kalsada kahihintay.

Minsan nakita ko ang sarili kong naninigarilyo habang nakahiga sa kama, ang katawa’y nakaharap sa bandang lamesa, ang mata’y nakatitig sa orasan.

Minsan naman ay sa tabi ng gwardyang inaantok sa labas ng ospital, naninigarilyo. Minsan pa nga’y sa loob mismo ng ospital, ang kamay ay pagod, kinukumutan ang hapung-hapong mukha.

Hinihintay kong dumating ako sa bahay. Hinihintay kong lumambot ang adobo, ang kanin na mainin, ang kanta sa radyo na matapos. Hinihintay kong maubos ang nasa hapag-kainan, ang kinaing tanghalian na bumaba. Marahil ay kawalang-bahala sa buhay ang ibig sabihin kapag hinintay ko pang mapundi ang ilaw, matangay ang yero ng bagyong mabangis.

Nakakapanlumong isipin na minsa’y nakatitig lang ako sa salamin, nakatayo at naninigarilyo.

Hinihintay kong hindi maging akin ang isang buhay na walang pinatutunguhan at walang ninanais kundi ang maghintay at manigarilyo. Taktak dito, taktak doon; ang abong nagkalat, ang usok na pumapanhik sa himpapawid; ang orasang nambibingi, ang isipang nangongonsensya.

Minsan nakita ko ang sarili kong init na init, ang pawis tuluy-tuloy ang pagtagaktak, ang katawa’y binibigay ang kinahahayukan habang naninigarilyo.

Ngunit ni minsa’y hindi ko nakita ang sarili kong naninigarilyo at tangan sa isipan ang masayang takbo ng buhay, ang masarap na pagkakaluto ng hapunan, ang galak sa ritmika ng isang tugtog, ang ngiting bakat sa mga papel na tinadtad na katha ng mga simbuyo ng silakbo ng damdamin at irit ng inspirasyon.

Ngayong ang dibdib naninikip, ang lalamunan gumagaralgal, ang boses tumatahol, ano pa nga bang dapat hintayin?

A while ago my Dad sent me a text message:

Anak, patay na yung idol mo, si J.D. Salinger. (Son, your idol J.D. Salinger passed away.)

I’ve known about it last Monday, or Tuesday–I really forgot but I knew about it six minutes after The New York Times published the news online (sadly, after knowing about it I was really sad for the next thirty minutes and sent a message to my closest writer friends about it; they kind of comforted me, which felt good). I received the text message while hosting a popular fiction quiz contest my organization spearheaded, and it made me smile. Dad knows I really like J.D. Salinger; I’ve probably told it a million times, but I didn’t expect him to text me about it. Hell, he didn’t really like the book (or he must have read it when he was twenty-something, in between his Vietnam war novels, and must have treated it with the same disgust he had with Murakami and Kafka). I showed the text message to my friends and they were happy for me to have such a Dad who at least knows his son’s favorite author.

Before I die I really wish I could to go to his grave and tell him everything I liked about his writing and his novels, most especially Catcher in the Rye. And I’ll probably whisper that his death made me realize that my Dad knows me, because my admiration for him is something deeply private.