Where you are now, not in your dark bedroom
where you had long ceased waiting for your husband,
nor in a classroom putting on either of your two faces:
the perky one that always kept your students on their toes,
or  your nonchalant self, the one with the dark glasses,
deliberate, definitely without the fire -- depending
on the kind of luck you had the night before --
you might happen to receive this, not perhaps in this black-ink-
on-white-paper, but perhaps in the sincere realm
of thought and intent, where feeling, I hope, is enough
to reach out to anyone.

Days back, a bit after December, when I found time on my hands,
a vacation's unwanted extension, I dropped by the school,
now so strange with younger people, newer buildings
and wider corridors, to thank one of your colleagues, Mr. Villanueva
for a favor, the kind that's so meaningful for paths less-traveled.
The night before, I had practiced in my sleep-weary mind
(during that time when you're most comfortable with your thoughts,
your present life) my soliloquy to be spoken in his new office,
for he had, I had learned, gone back to the place he had left
for greener pastures. Just like old times I had thought.
Nearing dreams, here's what I had said: Thank you for being there
in my most dire hour of need, during that time when I had to face myself,
find out what one of your peers, Miss Raceles, now Mrs. Arroyo,
our pot-smoking teacher of geometry, godmother of my first drink,
had said I would definitely find: the real me.
I have changed since then, found my real fulfillment,
my real element. Here I am, content, and way, way off
from being a philistine. And as I told him this, I saw him staring at me,
across the new table of his new office, with all the pride
of a former mentor who had made a dent on a younger life,
and congratulating me on my success, a felicitation so heartfelt
that I saw myself sitting there as if all the 10 years and heartache
did not matter, wiped clean by the dovetailing of two souls,
two hands reaching across table and time for a shake of affirmation.

But, as I said, that was just my dream; here's what really happened:
I had a hard time finding him, getting lost in the unfamiliar faces
that almost 5 years and another 5 -- when you're still getting there --
throw at you. When I finally saw him, it was not in an office,
but in the school grounds, now claustrophobic (a quadrangle of new rooms,
taller buildings hemming us in). As I had been warned,
he was smaller, a thinner version of the portly choir master
we had known (a motorcycle accident's reconfiguration).
Family's fine, he said. Kids growing up fast. And no,
this is just part time, you know, to foot the bills,
and in fact I'm about to pay one for the phone. Let's talk
some other time though. Let's talk. Oh sure, I said. Sure. Some other
time. (Sometimes things don't turn up quite the way you expect them.
You have this scene on your mind, setting and dialogue down pat,
and when the scene's acted out, nothing plays right.)

I went deeper into that maze of a school (still as intricate as ever,
but now devoid of that run-downy aspect: less woodwork, brighter paint),
perhaps too dazed for the anti-climactic, or perhaps just searching
for some closure (or just a way out perhaps?) What I found was
Mrs. Concepcion and her new clinic (further in the labyrinth, a room
more spacious than the one we left behind). She sat there as if we'd just left her
the day before, nary a change on her fair face, nor a trace of wrinkle
or crow's feet. She was surprised to see me. Yes we've moved up,
she said. Three more beds: magnet for malingerers, if you ask me.
We talked of other things, like her son in college, future aeronautical engineer
(a far cry from the effeminate lad in shorts, I imagined). Of course
we talked of you; she confirmed your passing from this earth,
told me how it was all so sudden, as you gave in to your lungs,
asthmatic life. Just wasn't the same, she said, just wasn't the same.
Most of your teachers had moved on for better jobs and lives I suppose.
No, not the same. Not like your group, the best my child
(a member of this superior bunch would later say they always said that).

When I told her of an errant thyroid and a jobless life,
she said to think of it as part of God's masterplan, a piece of the puzzle.
I said I have long done that, found religion, and -- this left unsaid --
myself. What are your plans? she asked. Taking one day at a time I said.
Getting old fast, though. Just hang in there, she said. These things happen
for a reason, God's way of saying something. By the way, I said,
as her protégée and constant companion back then came to mind. Kyla
is expecting this February. Was she in your class? she asked. Wasn't it her sister?
No, I said, refreshing her memory; Kathy is two years younger. Oh, she said, sometimes,
you meet all these faces, and you don't know. (Sometimes, the things people forget,
I thought.)

Like I said, we talked of other things. But they don't matter
I suppose, except perhaps for the usual counting off of my peers and their fates,
after which I took my leave, already looking forward to my next day's departure,
now eager to leave town more than ever, seeing myself on an aisle seat
in a dark night, looking ahead as white stripes on black asphalt
pull me closer to Metro Manila, thinking of the new year to be made,
of how some things ought to go on, ought to be kept alive, despite some deaths.