Remembering a Childhood Friend

The other day, I learned about the death of my childhood friend, Noel.  His body was found washed ashore the beach, around two kilometers from his mom's house, wrapped in plastic bag.  No one knows exactly when did he die, but according to neighbors, he was shot several times and that his motorcycle is missing.
It was his birthday last March 31, and I remember leaving a generic greeting on his Facebook account and then he replied a couple of days after.  I didn't even suspect anything, like how he changed his profile name and picture and how his status updates since the beginning of February were all about being bullied, stalked and verbally abused.
I checked the internet for news but nothing was ever published.  It was from Chie, a common friend in Italy, that I learned all about it and when I asked my sister to check on the details,  all that she got was that Noel was robbed and shot to death.  Nothing about the gory details that Chie recounted.
Noel was already my friend even before I started to go to school.  He was adopted by an elderly couple who owned a tailoring shop and who lived right next to our house.  He was the only flat-footed person I know.  They weren't very rich, but he had the coolest toys: Matchbox cars, GI Joe action figures, Lego blocks, Justice League playing cards and whatnot. And what's more, they've got colored TV.  I was practically in their house every afternoon to watch the Three Stoogies and Batibot and then later, Voltes V, Bioman, Shaider and Daimos, and would stay there until my parents came to drag me out of their living room.  During play, we never spoke much, but our imagination ran wild:  the rubber tire swing at my father's backyard was our galleon tossed by tempest and the high seas; the aratiles and the guava trees were already our Pandora even before James Cameron envisioned it;  we drew treasure maps that would lead to toys we buried by the walls of our homes; though we never went beyond a mile, we made quests to forests and vacant lots and hunted for ghosts or monsters or dwarves until we, ourselves, would be too scared of our own imagination; we bruised each other trying to recreate the fight scenes from the TV show, The Kung Fu Theatre but we never held grudges for hurting one another, we retold for the Nth time the last episodes of a cartoon we watched until they were so embellished, they no longer resembled the original plot....
Then, next thing I knew, school started and we just got separated.  Although sometimes, I would invite Noel over and by our porch, we will talk about our life until it's dark.  But those times were very far and few. Until the time that we just lost contact of each other.  Then, years after, his mother told me Noel entered the seminary.  I was secretly envious, because I was thinking of the very same thing, and because of my timidity, he beat me to it.  When I announced to my family that I wanted to enter the seminary too, they thought I was just copying from Noel, and that peeved me.  That actually stalled me from bringing up the topic of priesthood with my family, for the fear of being unoriginal.  Later, I learned that Noel left the seminary and it was a surprise because Noel was seen then as a sort of prodigy by his formators.  Apparently, one of the priests hinted about his being adopted and poor Noel, he didn't know about it.  In fact, everybody knew except him.  Even I, on the first time I met him, knew that he was adopted, but I guess no one bothered telling him because it doesn't matter anyway.  This accidental revelation by some imprudent priest actually broke Noel and he felt betrayed by all, including me.
Noel had a natural talent for music and so, later, he learned piano from a local music teacher in our town, and went to become one of the regular church organists during Sundays.  Every summer, during my college days, I would join the choir and every after practice, we get to talk a bit, but other than that, we just went on each other's ways.  With no nostalgia for our childhood memories, we just drifted so far apart that we no longer have much in common to talk about with.  Later, after my mother's death, my father sold our house in the countryside and with no home to return to, I no longer had reason to go back to that neighborhood, effectively cutting all communication with Noel.
The last time I saw Noel was two years ago, on the afternoon after I celebrated my first Mass.  My sisters and I decided to visit our old house, and we were surprised that nothing much has changed since it was sold.  Then, I went to check out the neighborhood and, next thing I knew, I was at Noel's.  He was there and he embraced me with joy.  Until the time I had to leave, he kept on repeating to all the people around us, "Look, everyone! Here's my best friend, here's my best friend."



As children, we tore up
our treasure maps and tossed
the pieces to an open fire,
and so today, some cherished toys
are still buried somewhere in our mind.
Whatever we imagined as our boat,
a spaceship, or a time machine,
tossed hard by every quell and tide,
now lies quiet and worn at the backyard.
The trees that used to shake
under our weight no longer cast
cool shades on childhood,
browned by dirt and sun.
But we were never bothered
by the passing of time,
until now that it is too late to say,
"Thanks, I had so much fun."

The Funeral of a War Hero

I left early to be at Pierre Chatel, a village about 7 km from the rectory.  I had with me my black bag containing just about everything I'll need for a celebration of a funeral rite.  It's actually an overnight bag, practical, elegant and spacious.  The church was closed but there are already a few people by the front steps.  As I made my way to the back-door, I passed by an old man and greeted him bonjour but he seemed lost in his thoughts and didn't reply back.  As I entered the building, I was greeted by the comforting warmth of the thermostat and the dim silence of the sanctuary.  I set up my CD player by a side altar, at a piece of instrumental music, Gabriel's Oboe which I have used as entrance song to practically all of my funerals since last June.  I donned my robes and was greeted by a war veteran.  He said he'll be saying a few words during the celebration and that three other war veterans will be there to carry flags.  You see, our beloved deceased, Georges, has participated in the battle of Montfroid in Savoie on a  resistance against the Germans, during the Second World War.  Apparently, he received many medals for for his courage, leadership and patriotism.  It should be noted though that while he's a local hero, he's not French.  He belonged to a family of Italian immigrants who escaped Mussolini's regime and settled in the mining community of La Motte d'Aveillans.  Foreigners were viewed with contempt those days and Georges worked hard to belong to his new country. From the number of people who went to his burial, I can say his efforts paid off.

The funeral service was just like all other funerals in Matheysine:  quiet.  The congregation, when greeted, would respond with nods and a mumble.  To songs and prayers, they join me by mouthing the words without producing any sounds.  Their lips would enunciate the difficult French words but you'll not hear a single squeak.  If some person would dare to sing any louder, he will be hounded with stern stares and well-placed nudges until he'd step back and sing the rest of the song in awkward silence.  I thought at first that it was only in my funerals that the people are like that.  It turned out, my confrères have the same experience at all funeral services they made.

The coffin was covered with the tricoloured national flag and is flanked by two candles lighted by the grandchildren of Georges.  At the song, Ave Maria, the deceased's daughter trembled with emotion and sobbed in a peculiar way: it had all the trappings of a full-pledged sob, with all the shoulder and head motions, but none of the sounds.  It actually impressed me:  an all-out cry on mute.  

We all went out at the song, Amazing Grace and went to the cemetery.  The high noon sun is melting last night's heavy snow and there's water and mud everywhere.  The three war veterans, these fully decorated flag bearers were cautious to walk over the melting snow while balancing their flags.  The coffin was placed near the mouth of the tomb which Georges shares with his wife, Simone.  I made a reference on how he died on a Valentines day, and how these two, separated by death, are now reunited in death and in the life after, and then everyone lined up to bless the coffin with holy water, a simple gesture of solemn goodbye to a beloved friend.

Tree branches looked

like lifted hands holding up snow

towards the high heavens.

As the first signs of spring begin

to bud on the leafless twigs,

the white icy holocaust melted

and dripped, the sun trapped

at each crystalline drop.

Lifeless, but we know it isn't

true, because days from now,

all the snow will be gone,

and these branches will again

be furiously teeming with life.

Asking the Dead

This is only my fourth post and I already wish to talk about death. Don't worry.  It won't be about my own death.  Nor would I contemplate or wish for a death of a person.  I just felt like the need to talk about my visit at the chambre funeraire.

This afternoon, I walked to a funeral parlour, only half a kilometre from the rectory.  I went there, first, to take advantage of the sun, which is becoming a rarity this January and I felt that a bit of fresh air won't hurt either.  Second, I wish to visit the remains of Monique, a nice middle aged mother who died of cancer just a few days ago.  She is well-loved by her family and her community, and I often see her during the Mass, always smiling at the pews. She's a member of our little association and I have already been to her house a few times, and have met her family.

Peeking at the glass door I hesitated a bit at the front steps the funeral parlor as I saw no one inside.  I entered anyway and wished aloud that someone is there to tell me where would I find Monique's wake.  A paper carefully taped on a door replied mutely of my query.  I entered and I was surprised at the dimness of the room. I must make this clear:  the room wasn't dark, it is just that it didn't have the artificial funeral candelabras that we often use at home.  The furnishings were utilitarian but tasteful, chaises on corners, a coffee table book, a table lamp, a reproduction of still-life painting on the wall.  As I surveyed the room and went to discover what's behind the divider that stood at the middle of the room, I soon realised that it's not only the candelabras that are missing.

Before me was a bed, and there lies Monique, wearing, not a formal dress, but a cream-colored thermal pull-over, covered with a dark blue quilt until her chest, her two white hands resting over her stomach.  There was no coffin at all.  It struck me as strange but then again, the whole concept of it seems to stress to all who visits her that she was just, in fact, sleeping.  As I sat down at a bench nearby, I looked at her and tried to recall of my memories of her.  One thing for sure, her sweet smile, even at death, hasn't left her.  

I then tried not to stare as I felt it not right to stare at a lady at whatever state she is.  Also, I began to hallucinate and imagined seeing the tell-tale rise and fall of her chest, breathing.  I felt obliged too to stay silent in my prayers so as not to disturb her "sleep."  So I just looked around this corner which is just as dim as the rest of the room and it felt companionably quiet.  Near her was a receptacle for holy water and an unlighted candle.  On the floor is a slab of stylised cut marble bearing the inscription, Annabelle Soeur.  Who is Annabelle Soeur?  Later, I realised that the writing actually said, A Ma Belle-Soeur, "to my sister-in-law." 

While my eyes were rarely on her and I barely made a sound, I didn't dread the presence of Monique's mortal remains.  I guess I am no longer afraid of the dead people.  In fact, in the dimness of the place, I began recalling the memories of my own beloved dead.  My mother, my father, my sister...  I don't know but that thought ached a lot like a nostalgic splinter in my eye and next thing I knew, I was weeping.  

I then asked Monique, in French, that if she sees my mom, my dad and my sister, to please, please tell them I said Hi, and that I love them and I miss them very much.  And that I am doing well although it would help alot if they would always pray for me.  My hallucination led me to believe that she smiled the more after that. Then I recited a decade of the rosary, stood up, wiped the tear-stains away from my face, bid Monique my adieu, went to the register to sign my name and then left.

Paperbacks

I am lost in this chapter

where the protagonist hid

among indecipherable words and I fear

that I don't care anymore.

My own story blurred at edges

and my world is filled with

the same faceless words that hurt

my eyes.  I searched

for the solace of a sound,

familiar, flowing, unstudied,

to break out somewhere between

the lines.  Is there an end?

Yes, of course, but reading it

would mean death to a friend.