That empty space is fine with and in itself; it has no need for or of us.
Or, it has emptied itself of its abundance, upon seeing us closing the distance
(threatened of rape, plunder, and the other imperatives of colonization).
It is best if we just walk on the path that cruelly cuts through them,
and just let the sliced and side spaces breathe -- and air to pass through
or settle in their emptiness. Our burdens are our own, our own crosses.
Spare the rest of the world the heavy load, as we proceed to our private Golgotha.
Let the empty spaces do nothing more than bear witness to our procession.
Or, nothing more than being or not being, as we plod on to our crucifixion.
Still, our declaration of faith steadfastly remains, "We believe in Resurrection."
And soon we, who have been running empty, shall perish and ash --
neither in victory nor defeat -- into the quiet brotherhood of empty spaces.
I have long accepted, being my father's son myself, that parents (fathers, in particular, as a father myself) will always love their children so much more than the other way around. Now my children are children, but they will grow up, and discover my misdeeds -- sins or crimes, even! -- and may end up despising me, cursing me, till I die. And perhaps wish me dead as soon as possible, sooner than God or nature plans. But how much should it matter? It's a given that I'll try to win back their love and respect. And if it would be in vain, though they may curse me every second and every day till the day I die, I'll still love them more and more till the day I die. (That is, if ever love can be measured via hourglasses and calendars.)
Dang, so we're not pushing through with our Albay trip tonight, as it would be difficult on the road as the approaching !@#$% storm is intensifying...Anyway, during lunch earlier, upon confirmation that our trip is cancelled, talk meandered to (ahem) ancestral pride. My mother, Nilda Lagman-Sevilla, told about my maternal great-great-grandfather, a peninsulares from Spain, with the surname Diaz, who, despite being a full-blooded Spaniard, refused to speak Spanish in his Kapampangan household out of loyalty to our land; and even became a Katipunero during the 19th century Philippine Revolution against the Spanish occupation; who came down all the way from Pampanga to Luneta upon learning of the then-imminent execution of Gomburza and Jose Rizal, respectively, to witness their martyrdom; who with his comrades during the revolution disguised themselves as kakanin street hawkers and hid their weapons under the food in their bilaos; who, when stopped by the Guardia Civil upon a checkpoint, pulled out a bolo and hacked the guard to death; who, I believe, if alive today, will tell us to, "Push through with your Albay trip; that !@#$% storm is just another stupid checkpoint!"
Sigh, I really wanna go to the beach along Bacacay, and wash my sins, in faithful observance of Holy Week. Well, here's hoping and praying for zero casualty under the mercy of another storm...