He smiles at everyone; he has thirty-two pearly white
reasons to do so. I am not his dentist but I assume he has a complete set of teeth;
he had been the hygienic boy I knew from day one. From head down, he is clear
of any noticeable flaw. His physique promises a modeling career, if not a
showbiz career. And he will never be a pain in the neck in the business, he’s an
honest gentleman; humble and soft-spoken. He can easily get along with any
creature.

 

I knew the boy very well; we grew up in the same community. Living
two houses apart, we’ve had indelible moments shared. We are childhood friends,
to put it simply. I witnessed how he turned from an effeminate, mumbling lad
into a brusque, handsome teenager. He witnessed how I metamorphosed from a
singing, skinny child-prodigy into a longhaired potbellied bum. He played a
supporting role back in the mid-nineties when I was having a puppy love affair with
his sister. He was less involved, but he never complained about it. He trusted
me and respected me as he has trusted and respected the world around him.

 

Like any childhood friendships, we have invented a world of
our own. I still remember how we graced an old, abandoned house with our own
idea of macabre architecture. I still remember how his ate would blush whenever
I playact an evil-possessed bastard and how he, a loyal fan, would marvel at my
most pedestrian of illusions. He was a more gullible playmate than her ate, and
I was but a guilty nasty trickster.

 

Their feeble wooden house by the riverside is now a proud,
stable concrete. But the place to where it stood will always keep the history
of our adventures, our supernatural yarns. To the grains of sand our playful
steps were intricately stamped and our voices were registered in the silent of
the waters. We wallowed and wrestled and gamboled and danced to the tune of our
laughter. We had hard and low times of course, but childhood is only meant for
cute lamentations. I cannot come up with a bitter tale from among the fleeting
stardust moments we’ve had.

 

But this will not continue as a heartwarming reminiscence.
This is a sad true story.

 

There is a boy named Daniel Joseph Bantique now resting in
peace. At eighteen, he could have been elsewhere. Yet his life is drawn to be a
very short one. He died in a motor crash while driving home from Mabayuan, Olongapo City, just meters away from a funeral
home. He suffered a broken skull which deformed his face. The rumor has it that
he drank and drove after a tearful breakup with his girlfriend. His wake will be seeing its final dawn today. I will be there just like I was there all along.

 

Just recently, I asked my Ate: “How would you react if
I die for the same purported reason Joseph died? Would you welcome the girl to
my wake? My Ate is quick to
respond: “No. If she shows up, I’ll have
her skinned. Of course she exaggerates, but I can see her utter disgust to
the thought of it. Well, that is beside my point. My point is I am a potential
candidate for the drink-and-drive-to-forget drama. Well, in my case I am only
capable of the drama. I don’t and won’t drink, and I don’t have anything to
drive with. Oh I forgot; I have a cat. If she’s a horse, I might have been an
equestrian. Just forget about it.

 

Joseph’s story rings a loud warning about life’s
uncertainties. The first is about the uncertainty of love. One day he and his
girl are exchanging sweet morning greetings, then came the night they are
doomed to bid goodbyes. I can only speculate on that matter, but I believe it
was a very sudden change of hearts between them, and its aftermath was a literal
sudden death no one ever thought of. That was the other warning: death is very
unpredictable.

 

Actually, part of my anxiety is due to the fact that I used
to drive as fast as hell. An avid follower of Discovery Channel must have heard
these words: “I shouldn’t be alive”. Yes,
I was given a second life. My motorcycle diary is filled with accounts that
range from police chases to death races. I have ugly scars on my patellae and
tibiae that can speak about them. I was a daredevil and with speed I used to
play recklessly. But now I learned to prize the life. I gave up driving after
the horrible accident at the Bicentennial Park, SBMA, October of
2005. God is great, I got away with only a sprained ankle. Not too many people
will live to tell the story of such a high-speed crash.

 

Here I’m still alive, still aching, still bleeding. Here I’m
still alive, I live to experience more torture. Life is sometimes more dreadful
than death. At least death brings sympathy, some people live without the sense
of comfort. At least death draws company, some people simply languish in solitude.
At least in death, flowers pay visit; some people live their lives dry and
colorless. I think of Joseph and I think about the void he left in his family,
in his community, in this world. I always hear people talking about how they
will miss Joseph and how their lives will never be the same again in his
absence. I couldn’t agree more. I just think his death only reaffirms the old
saying that goes like this:

 

We do not know the value of a thing until we lose it. But I won’t
end it just like that. I think I know the value of things or persons before I could
lose them to death or any other inevitable end. It is actually my value I’m
having a hard time assessing.

 

 

 

 

 

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