“Isang Liham”
ni: Andrea Jasmine Navarro
Sa panahong gabundok ang problemang pasan,
Lubak, paliko liko at walang hanggan ang mga daan,
Isang tao ang siyang handang humawak sa aming mga kamay,
Sasamahan kami sa aming paglalakbay.
Kahit sa umaga'y may dilim ang kalangitan,
Sa kanyang liwanag ako'y ginagabayan,
Iminumulat ang aming isipan sa katotohanan,
Itinuturo ang mga dapat naming malaman.
Sa kapahamakan laging binabalaan,
Tinatama mga gawing may kamalian,
Sermo'y hindi para kami'y kagalitan,
Subalit upang kami'y tumahak sa tamang daanan.
Aming guro, isa kang tunay na biyaya.
Sakripisyo mo'y hindi matutuwaran;
Isa kang bayani na binigay ng may-likha,
Pag-asa sa gitna nitong walang kasiguraduhang digmaan.
Dala man nitong mga pagkakataon,
May tinik sa puso ko'y bumabaon,
Hitik man sa hirap ako'y iyong inaahon,
Pagkat turo mo sa aki'y isang inspirasiyon.
Walang kawangis ang iyong pagsisikap
Katuwang ang isa't isa tungo sa ating mga pangarap
Mga mata'y tila talang kumikislap,
Pagkat turo mo sa aki'y patuloy na yumayakap.
Pasasalamat ma'y isang salita lamang,
Ngunit sa puso'y iba ang nilalaman,
Ikaw ang guro na aming nasasandalan,
Ngunit sana'y iyong wag kalimutan—kami ri'y inyong maaasahan.
"Susi ng Karunungan"
ni: Angelica Escullar Rosa
Sa bawat panahon na nagdaan,
Nagbago man ang ating nakasanayan,
Ang mga guro padin ang nagsisilbing daan,
Upang ang kamang-mangan ay ating maiwasan.
Matinding hirap din ang kanilang nararanasan,
Subalit hindi ito isang hadlang
Sa pagbibigay sa atin ng panibagong kaalaman
Na makatutulong sa atin sa pagkakaroon ng magandang kinabukasan.
Marami man ang balakid upang sa ati'y maipabatid- ang kaalamang nais nilang ihatid.
Handa nilang tawirin upang tayo ay maturuan, kahit sariling katawan na ay kanilang napapabayaan.
Pagod, puyat, ay kanilang kalaban,
Maging sakit ay kanilang nilalabanan.
Huwag lang makalimutan turuan ang mga kabataang magsisilbing pag-asa ng bayan.
Sa hirap at ginawa, sa kalungkutan o kasiyahan, lagi silang nariyan upang tayo ay alalayan.
Nagsisilbi nating magulang, sa tuwing tayo ay nahihirapan,
Handang maging sandigan, at pwede rin natin maging kaibigan.
Magsabi lang sa kanila, handa tayong alalayan, lalo na sa panahong nalulugmok tayo sa kahirapan.
Mga gurong nagsisilbing "susi ng karunungan",
Ay laging nandyan upang magbigay ng mga bagong kaalaman,
Dumaan man itong pandemya na susubok sa prinsipyo nila,
Handang suungin ang lahat, maibigay lamang ang kalidad na edukasyon sa kanilang mga mag-aaral .
Kaya sa lahat ng mga guro sa ating bansa,
Isang pagpupugay sa inyong tapang at determinasyon.
Hindi namin matutupad ang aming pangarap, kung hindi dahil sa walang sawa nyong pag pagsasabi na kailangan namin mangarap.
Hinubog nyo ang aming pagkatao, at ito ay babaunin namin hanggang dulo.
“MAY PASOBRA DAHIL SPECIAL KA!”
ni: Francine Dianne Ambayec
Maestra't Maestro ng aming klase
Kaalamang dulot nila'y wala 'kong masabi
Edukasyong handog na talagang madetalye
Sa kalidad ng pagtuturo'y nakakakampante
Turing sa mag aaral ay pantay pantay
Kapalaran ng lahat nasa kanilang kamay
Karunungang may kakaibang taglay
Silay malaking parte ng bawat buhay
Adhikain nila'y kami'y matuto
Hirap man magturo sa telepono
Nagtitiis, nagsasakripisyo
Para sa kinabukasang aming plinano
Mga bagong bayani ng industriya
Sandata nilay tisa at pisara
Nasa kalagitnaan man ng pandemya
Kalakasan nila'y nasa teknolohiya
“Ang Paborito ng Pastol”
ni: Kryztelle Garcera Tugado
Maaliwalas ang kalangitan ngayong araw— walang bahid ng pagbabanta.
Maging ang hampas ng banayad na hangin sa malagkit na balat ay tahimik.
Tanging ang ingay mula sa bibig ng pamilyang nakawala sa malawak na lupain
ang siyang maririnig;
Naririyan na naman sila’t nagbabalik.
Tatlumpu’t apat.
Gaya ng nakagawian, nagkalat sa pastulan ang tatlumpu’t apat na mga inosenteng tupa,
at isang pares ng paa.
Tanaw sa malayo ang anino ng matandang tila nakikipag-usap sa kanila.
Nag-iiwan ng mata para sa panganib, habang hinihimas ang bukod-tanging tupa na paborito nya.
Ika-tatlumpu’t lima
Ang huling tupa’y wala sa lupa bagkus ay balot sa bisig ng matanda.
Ito ang pinakamunti sa lahat ng mga alaga’t tila walang pagkukusa
Sinusubuan at prenteng namamahinga, habang ang iba ay malaya
Hindi nga patas, lalo na kung magmumula sa paningin ng iba.
Sa tuwing oras ng pagkain ay bitbit lamang ito ng matanda
Ang iba’y hinahayaan lamang, siguro’y natuto na.
Pamumunuan nya lahat ng mga tupa, ngunit higit ang trato sa isa
Mabuti’t ang tatlumpu’t apat na iba ay sumusunod pa sa boses nya
Marahil kung nakadarama, napuno na ng poot ang puso ng nakararami
Yaring pastol ay hindi nga makatarungan, kung sya ay mamimili
Turing sa isa’y prinsesa, ano ba at bawat galaw nito’y ikinatutuwa?
Umikot ang ika-tatlumpu’t lima at mas dumikit pa sa amo niya
“Hindi ka nakakikita at nakaririnig, ngunit malambing ka!” Humalakhak ang matanda.
“Paghabi't Pagsagip”
ni: Loris Charmane I. Calimag
Sa loob ng bungo'y subsob ang apat na kandila
Binabaybay ng hangin ang durungawang nilulumot
Kalat ang libong sapot sa sentidong kulong ang panata
Baluktot; gusot dulot nang paikot-ikot na karunungan sa hamog
Henerasyong kalkulado ng sining;
Sinisipat ng pulso't hindi na mahagilap sa tapat ng araw na lubog
Naghihikahos ang dating katunggali ng himig—
Bakal ang mga butong dati ay madaling nahuhulma ng pagbabago sa isang lunok
Nakalutang ang mga talampakan sa entabladong pundi
Masigasig na palakpakan para sa mga brasong ang lipad ay bitag sa hitik na punong bingi
Mula itaas, pababa, pabulusok sa sahig
Mula itaas, pababa, pabulusok; may naghahandang sagip
Henerasyong kalkulado ng sining;
Mga gabay ay nakaguhit sa tropeyong sugat sa mga bibig na bantay ng dilim
Henerasyong sining sa mga diwatang tagapayo ng mga pirata sa uniberso;
Yaman nila'y nakaw sa magagaspang na palad ng karunungang isinipol at sibol ng mga puting yeso
Limos man ang pandigmaang isinasalag sa giyerang paghabi't paghapit sa bawat baitang,
Nanlilimahid man ang kasuotan sa huwad na pagwawagi,
Mayroon namang mahikang lilok ng mga dalampasigang puno ng alat at kaalaman;
Mula pa sa mga bersikulong ulat ng mga mandirigma ng pagguho't pagsagip.
“T A G A P A G P A A N I N A W”
ni: Lance Tinoco
Guro
apat na letra
dalawang daan at siyam na araw nagtuturo
mga turo
kasing kulay ng mga nagsisiliparang paro-paro
tila ay landas papalayo
kung saan minsan tayo'y
sa klase tumayo
pakiramdam na di mapakali
kung ang sagot ba ay tama o mali
presensya ng isang guro
pakiramdam na napaka puro
panahon lang ang naglalayo
sa isang guro
habang tayo humahayo
at sa sarili ay tumatayo
ika nga ay ikalawang magulang
minamahal
Guro
๐ฃ๐ข๐๐ ๐ฆ
“The Gardener”
by: John Ray Daniel J. Garcia
Before, I was just nothing but a seed.
A seed with no hope to be a full grown tree.
But you;
You didn't give up on me.
You fed me,
When I was starving.
You gave me water,
When I was thirsty.
You sang me a song,
When I couldn't sleep.
You gave me everything I yearned for.
You helped me grow into a strong and unbreakable tree.
I stood proud and formidable because of you.
I hope I made you proud,
Now that I've become a full grown tree.
Most of it could be your blood, sweat, and tears—but not even a single drop was wasted.
My deepest gratitude for you, my gardener.
Thank you for everything.
"Walk With You"
by: Lorraine D. Villete
Mirror, mirror, on the wall—
Tell me, how are they all?
With a sigh and a beautiful smile that plasters on their faces;
“Another day indeed,” as they loudly mouth it.
In their hearts is a tiny glimpse of glee.
Sweet little angels and their joyous laughter—what an exciting sight to see!
Garden full of posies with exquisite beauty;
A never-ending field for the little ones to play in and run around free.
They carry roses in their hands and seem to be carefree.
Gawking in awe as it piques the curiosity,
A gleam of both fear and anticipation awakes—
The hearts of the little angels were lost at the scene,
“What should we do with them?”
The small hands that cling to yours for guidance, around the breezy meadows—
“It will be alright, my little angels.”
It draws a picture of calmness under a stormy night—
Twinkles of the universe describes us.
Aura that radiates patience; calms the heart from its tremors.
For you, the Gardener shall walk with these angels on an adventure!
Atmosphere full of the lustrous scent of flowers,
And the numerous clouds of questions;
Nothing like another day of learning, indeed.
As the hours pass by with the gusting winds—
sunset is a must, for it needs rest.
Sweet Gardener, we offer you this gift as a token of appreciation.
”What a ravishing, sweet-looking apple,” as they receive it.
Mirror, mirror, on the wall—
Please tell me, how are they all?
Where are those beautiful smiles that stick on their faces?
Longing for never-ending wishes upon the darkness,
With the moon as the only source of light;
Come to think of it, can you remember the last sunrise?
Garden full of wilted life; no longer does it enlighten the sight.
People dare to see their rights.
I believe they are looking for fights.
It is no longer safe for the little ones to run around free.
Sweet little angels—where are their joyous laughs?
Why has such a good day become the end of it all?
"I've missed you all so."
When will the light shine upon them again?
Has the gardener already forgotten what it's like to be alive again?
As he'd forgotten about the once bright apple, now rotten in his place, as memories had faded.
"Sweet little angels, we'll get through this together."
The first and last promises are still held deep within the Gardener's heart from then.
“Leading Strings”
by: Erica G. Ildefonso
It was on my second quinquennium –
hair fumbled, blouse wrinkled, and
the seam of my skirt bethumbed –
that my ears first crimsoned in tweak
by the fingers of Madam Miss
Ungenial to me her screams that day
how she chided with her ferule hitting,
“Prim is what a lady should be!”
and the raise of a scornful brow
detesting me
Every day, I was an ant drowning in her earful
The constant palavering whirred in my head
like bees mating in secret
except for the ๐ฃ๐ถ๐ป๐ป, ๐ฃ๐ถ๐ป๐ป, ๐ฃ๐ถ๐ป๐ป
in my lobe, harmonizing
Until I eventually wonted to her temperament
so sullen and teeming with austerity –
or did I only walk on eggshells,
forbidding myself from eliciting
a wave of anger that was innate to her?
This retrospection of draconian years
from time out of mind,
to which my petulance narrated –
She was the rigid priest
and I was the willing apostate
Yet now, on my sixth quinquennium –
a time-worn childishness
and decreasing folly –
that it dawned on me
the nature of Madam Miss
Had I seen it from the beginning –
that her sneer was just a monition of the impending wrath
of a neighbor or an overseer
and the spanking was merely a preparation
for the torments we wallowed in during the ripeness of our being
– I should have precluded myself from straying too far away
“Amal”
by: Juliana Agbulos
In the depths of the sea,
Thou perceived the unseen.
Thou had strewn thy gold here and there,
And ignited the invincible summer within me.
With thy cordial and unfeigned rays,
I felt a warm embrace.
Then, I remembered being a wallflower:
In a crowded room with untold noise.
I was once contented with the sunless skies,
But thee made me bloom beautifully.
Thine ardent solicitude uplifted my soul,
Like the tranquil warmth of a cold season.
Calm thy thoughts and rest.
After all, at the end of the day,
I know thee did thy best.
“A Walk to Inspire”
by: Axel Adame
Another owl night again,
But I need my eyes open and fight,
For I don't want my son to feel the pain,
Willing to bestow myself to be his light.
“๐ ๐ถ๐ด๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ฃ๐ฆ ๐ถ๐ฑ ๐ถ๐ฏ๐ต๐ช๐ญ ๐ฅ๐ข๐ธ๐ฏ,
๐ ๐ธ๐ข๐ด ๐ด๐ฐ ๐ฃ๐ณ๐ฐ๐ฌ๐ฆ๐ฏ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ข๐ต ๐ฎ๐บ ๐ต๐ฆ๐ข๐ณ๐ด ๐ด๐ต๐ณ๐ฆ๐ข๐ฎ๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ฅ๐ฐ๐ธ๐ฏ.
๐๐ฐ๐ณ ๐ ๐ฅ๐ช๐ฅ๐ฏ'๐ต ๐จ๐ช๐ท๐ฆ ๐ถ๐ฑ ๐ต๐ณ๐บ๐ช๐ฏ๐จ ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ข๐ค๐ฉ ๐ฎ๐บ ๐ฅ๐ฆ๐ด๐ต๐ช๐ฏ๐ข๐ต๐ช๐ฐ๐ฏ,
๐ ๐ง๐ฐ๐ถ๐จ๐ฉ๐ต ๐ฉ๐ข๐ณ๐ฅ ๐ข๐ฏ๐ฅ ๐ธ๐ข๐ฏ๐ต๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ฃ๐ฆ๐ค๐ฐ๐ฎ๐ฆ ๐ข๐ฏ ๐ช๐ฏ๐ด๐ฑ๐ช๐ณ๐ข๐ต๐ช๐ฐ๐ฏ.”
For you, I don't know the obstacles,
Can't feel what the cycle is,
But I can see right through you,
And it builds the fuel for my desired hue.
“๐ ๐ข๐ด๐ฌ๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ฎ๐บ๐ด๐ฆ๐ญ๐ง ๐ฐ๐ท๐ฆ๐ณ ๐ข๐ฏ๐ฅ ๐ฐ๐ท๐ฆ๐ณ,
๐๐ง ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ด๐ฆ ๐ฅ๐ฆ๐ต๐ฆ๐ณ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ฏ๐ต๐ด ๐ธ๐ฐ๐ถ๐ญ๐ฅ ๐ค๐ฉ๐ข๐ฏ๐จ๐ฆ ๐ฎ๐บ ๐ฎ๐ข๐ฏ๐ฏ๐ฆ๐ณ.
๐๐ถ๐ต ๐ ๐ฅ๐ช๐ฅ๐ฏ'๐ต ๐จ๐ช๐ท๐ฆ ๐ถ๐ฑ ๐ต๐ณ๐บ๐ช๐ฏ๐จ ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ข๐ค๐ฉ ๐ฎ๐บ ๐ฅ๐ฆ๐ด๐ต๐ช๐ฏ๐ข๐ต๐ช๐ฐ๐ฏ,
๐ ๐ง๐ฐ๐ถ๐จ๐ฉ๐ต ๐ฉ๐ข๐ณ๐ฅ ๐ข๐ฏ๐ฅ ๐ธ๐ข๐ฏ๐ต๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ฃ๐ฆ๐ค๐ฐ๐ฎ๐ฆ ๐ข๐ฏ ๐ช๐ฏ๐ด๐ฑ๐ช๐ณ๐ข๐ต๐ช๐ฐ๐ฏ.”
As I see you every day my son,
It gives me the urge to be your sun.
The reflection of diligence in your eyes,
Gives me the power to be the fuel in your fire.
“๐ ๐ฅ๐ฆ๐ค๐ช๐ฅ๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ค๐ณ๐ฐ๐ด๐ด ๐ต๐ฉ๐ช๐ด ๐ฑ๐ข๐ต๐ฉ,
๐๐ฆ๐ค๐ข๐ถ๐ด๐ฆ ๐ ๐ฌ๐ฏ๐ฆ๐ธ ๐ ๐ค๐ฐ๐ถ๐ญ๐ฅ ๐ฃ๐ฆ๐ค๐ฐ๐ฎ๐ฆ ๐ฎ๐บ ๐ด๐ฐ๐ฏ'๐ด ๐ญ๐ข๐ต๐ฉ.
๐๐ด ๐ ๐ฅ๐ช๐ฅ๐ฏ'๐ต ๐จ๐ช๐ท๐ฆ ๐ถ๐ฑ ๐ต๐ณ๐บ๐ช๐ฏ๐จ ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ข๐ค๐ฉ ๐ฎ๐บ ๐ฅ๐ฆ๐ด๐ต๐ช๐ฏ๐ข๐ต๐ช๐ฐ๐ฏ,
๐ ๐ง๐ฐ๐ถ๐จ๐ฉ๐ต ๐ฉ๐ข๐ณ๐ฅ ๐ข๐ฏ๐ฅ ๐ธ๐ข๐ฏ๐ต๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ฃ๐ฆ๐ค๐ฐ๐ฎ๐ฆ ๐ข๐ฏ ๐ช๐ฏ๐ด๐ฑ๐ช๐ณ๐ข๐ต๐ช๐ฐ๐ฏ.”
My son, I know you'll reach your dreams,
For I'll persevere to be your shoulder on your way to the cream,
My son, don't darken the shine in your eyes,
For that is my inspiration to share: be on your flight.
“๐ ๐ธ๐ช๐ญ๐ญ ๐ค๐ฐ๐ฏ๐ต๐ช๐ฏ๐ถ๐ฐ๐ถ๐ด๐ญ๐บ ๐ช๐ฏ๐ด๐ฑ๐ช๐ณ๐ฆ ๐บ๐ฐ๐ถ, ๐ฎ๐บ ๐ด๐ฐ๐ฏ.”
“Obrigado Padeiro”
by: Dane Navarro
Two bakers who differed from each other.
A tinker's cuss and keen as mustard,
Traits that made a difference.
They both had the same goals, yet they pulled out with strange results...
Once upon a time, a baker was without an inducement and produced a dull loaf of bread that was fanny about.
Knew how to make it but was unable to render it from the heart.
Unexpectedly, the bread lacked something.
Regrettably, the eager baker failed to highlight the quality of the dough.
Another baker who foresaw every essence,
A baker that everyone must have—
Made a variety of bread with different punches and kicks,
Who went through the diversified process:
Ingredients were measured.
Wet and dry were mixed—
Folded and became one.
Then, divided into their purposes.
The bread was tired, and the baker knew.
They took a rest and bloomed.
Baker was proud because he knew—that the dough was ready to become dainty.
Every bakery that's full of succulent loaves of bread,
Is a baker whose vehement molding a simple flour and water—
With the inevitable sweetness of success.
Everyone can bake, but no one can devise bread with an eloquent baker's unfeigned delights.
“The Crooked Cane”
by: Erica G. Ildefonso
I, through the tragedy that befell
on the earliest lustrum of hell,
from the namesake demon’s womb,
had shown plaintive grievance
for my own paraplegia
From the hiding on a corporeal not,
on the limbs not,
on a visage not,
lay the bruise I needed not shroud
as my companions had not taken a view
In the building fretted by the unripe minds,
I had been the subject of much stares and snares
And in the world of working and woes—
The impious poured me scorn, “Beneath contempt!”
And had my crus butchered again
All these years of detrimental silence
and still—my sorrow remained
behind the windows shuttered and shushed
Until one eye peaked
Until one eye peaked!
Though my languidness made me eschew
the high ladder and long slide
or the view of dying sun in a mellow light
There, a lad beckoned
—a ray of affability flashed before me
Each day, he taught me how to walk
Small steps first and then we strode
At some time, I found my mother’s gentleness in him
But mostly, he was goading me
until my impairment became a sole mirage
Then one morn, as we clambered the tree—
I behold with much perplexity
the bottom hem of his pant showed
one akin to my own
and the other not
—a mere faux of an appendage
“My Death and How It Lingers: A Story Dedicated to Our Beloved Teachers”
by: Darein P. Catchillar
I. My Death and Sorrow
I was on their bones.
I was on their tiptoes on a misty, shiny roof.
I was in their jocund moment.
I was in their leman soul that defined their dear existence.
My whey-face as it all ran dry.
My love for canzonet felt like a period of heavy breaths.
My small squared mew as I measured it my meed.
My shent for my head's chaotic pictures and waftures.
And then I disappeared, caught in my last gasp.
I felt no pain but the sharpness of their joyous, wrinkled faces.
Flipped solidares for my journey that tanged the rock away from my head.
And then the light scarfed up the tender eye of mine, “One senseless-obstinate of time.”
I saw the blurry lights as it passed by.
I felt my soul weakened as they screamed,
“Stay here, stay there!”
And the minim of that death aisle:
It scared me, it scared them!
It dwindled the mercurial vapor,
Which mobled my children into fears and sorrows.
My hopes were dashed, and my intentions were shattered.
They prayed, but the legerity of my destined story took its maddest place.
II. My Reminiscence and Hereafter
They pull me back with the warmth of their palms.
The wooden boat can't stop the shrink of their memories.
They pull me back to make me remember my dreamland—
And it gives me faith to remember my forgotten land.
A tarnished journey in the living past within my grand.
No fatal flaw, no wight to blame through the roots as I wander the afterlife.
But they grow in the thinnest air of my breath.
And they wrack the fear out of my veins.
I hear the waves of laughter, it calms the mad within me.
Blaze of the thickness of this journey covers the pain of my farewell.
But it never dies, it lives.
My dwindling fears come into contact with the roaring hoax.
It touses me joint by joint.
It reaves the cold on me.
It recks the soul of that past.
And it franks me, their voices scream inside me.
Yes, forsooth, I am part of who they are.
And it doesn't stop there, nothing such as dead-end:
Because their ๐ธ๐ฉ๐ข๐ต๐ด, ๐ธ๐ฉ๐บ๐ด, and ๐ฉ๐ฐ๐ธ๐ด haunt me.
And my absence pains my spirit to know that they have to face the life full of menacing clandestine without me.
III. My Future and Endless Return
I'll come back as a shunless ray of light.
Furnish them with foxship, my owls.
I'll make them achieve the good of the gests.
Illume them with answers they need to mend.
But because I am one with the wind,
I'll whisper them, “Ken the misfortunes!”
And it'll reach beyond their souls,
Each little mote will peep under the surface.
Bat-fowling will stop—let my hummingbirds fly!
I'll teach them to manipulate such haleness, the best of them will never die.
And in the dark cave they're in,
I'll possess them to see—“Dear child, never hold such an ignominy.”
I may have died, but I'll never stay dead.
My words will stay right here on my beloved windy land.
Never let them throw a sharp with quillets.
I, myself, know that they're wiser than the fools.
And while I am gone,
They will continue what I've started.
And the wind will answer their mumbles,
No farewell—I may have died but the words will stay bleeding inside my children's gentle tongues.
Note: This is a story of a teacher who metaphorically died. With the conveyance of their shared knowledge, words, and pearls of wisdom—to emphasize that none of those dies. The fire of will to teach of any teachers never dies. And even if they come to a point wherein they need to face the actual death, they carry their will in the afterlife. And that all the lessons stay here on our surface, it never dies. It stays in the mind of the children, the cold of the wind, and the deep of their bones.
TULANG TULUYAN
“Unawa”
ni: Franxine Teodocio
Naunahan ko pa ang araw sa pagsikat ngayong umaga. Tila hinahabol ko ang oras. Sa bawat pag galaw ng mga kamay ng orasan ay kasabay nito ang pawis ko na nag uunahan sa pagpatak.
Nang makarating ako, mabilis kong inilagay ang mga nag uumapaw na maruming damit sa banyerang naglalaman ng tubig. Sa bawat pagkusot at pagpiga ay talagang nauubos ang lakas ko, hindi lang dahil sa pagod kundi pati na rin sa oras na hinahabol ko.
Tatlumpu’t tatlong minuto. Tatlumpung minuto na ang nalagpasan ko. Matatapos na ang pagsusulit, ngunit heto’t nagkukusot pa rin ako. Tatlong asignatura ang nasagutan na ng mga kamag-aral ko, nang iabot sa akin ang tatlong daang pisong bayad para sa paglalabada ko.
Dumiretso ako sa tindahan. "Pa-load ho."
Nakangiting kinuha ko ang telepono ko nang makauwi ako. Sasagutan ko na ang mga pagsusulit na nalagpasan ko ngunit agad ring naglaho ang ngiti sa labi ko nang pindutin ito.
“This form is currently not accepting responses.”
Nangilid ang luha sa aking mga mata; mas lalong pinagpawisan sa kaba. Pagod na ang katawan ko ganoon din ang isipan ko. Isang paraan na lamang ang kailangan kong gawin.
"Magandang tanghali po, Binibini/Ginoo. Ipagpaumanhin nyo po kung hindi ako nakapagsagot ng pagsusulit sa takdang oras, sapagkat kinailangan kong kumuha ng labada upang magkaroon ng pera para masagutan ang pagsusulit. Sana'y maunawaan niyo po ako, hinihiling ko pong sana ay mabigyan ako ng isa pang pagkakataon upang masagutan ang pagsusulit sa kahit na anong oras. Maraming salamat po."
Pinadalahan ko ng mensahe ang mga Guro ko sa bawat asignatura na nalagpasan ko. Hindi ako maaaring panghinaan ng loob, mataas ang pangarap na mayroon ako hindi lamang para sa sarili ko, kundi pati na rin para sa pamilya ko kahit na nilisan na nila ang mundong ito. Agad napawi ang lungkot na naramdaman ko nang sumagot ang mga guro ko.
"Magandang tanghali, anak. Labis akong natutuwa sapagkat gumagawa ka ng paraan upang maipagpatuloy ang pag-aaral mo sa gitna ng pandemyang ito. Huwag kang mag-alala at bibigyan kita ng sapat na oras upang masagutan ang pagsusulit na iyong nalagpasan. Naniniwala akong matutupad mo ang lahat ng mga pangarap mo dahil sa sipag at tiyagang tinataglay mo. Maraming salamat, anak. "
"Magandang tanghali din, anak. Nauunawaan ko ang paumanhin mo. Hayaan mo at bibigyan kita ng oras para masagutan ang pagsusulit mo, sabihan mo lamang ako kung kailan ang libreng oras mo. Walang anuman, anak"
Umiiyak ang puso ko, dahil sa labis na galak.
Gumaan ang bigat na dala ko dahil sa mga sagot nila. Tunay ngang mga Guro ang pangalawa nating ituturing na magulang sa paaralan! Hindi man natin sila nakakasama ay naipararamdam naman nila sa atin kung gaano sila naniniwala sa kakayahang mayroon tayo. Doble man ang katumbas na pagod na nararamdaman nila kaysa sa atin ay pinipili pa rin nilang maging malakas para sa paningin nating mga estudyante nila.
Napawi ang lahat pagod na naramdaman ko.
Hindi ako mawawalan ng pag-asa at magpapatuloy ako sa buhay upang maabot ko ang lahat ng mga pangarap ko.
Pilit man akong ibaba ng sarili ko, lisanin man ako ng lahat, sakupin man ako ng kadiliman ay nakatayo pa rin ako at hindi susuko sa laban dahil kahit na mag isa na lamang ako sa buhay ay may mga tao parin na patuloy na maniniwala at magtitiwala sa akin,
at 'yon ay ang mga GURO ko.
๐ฃ๐ฅ๐ข๐ฆ๐
“THE COMPANION I FOUND IN MY LAST MOMENTS"
by: The Spiracle's Prose Literary Writers
Let me tell you a secret of the universe: there is no such thing as being alone when it comes to man. “No man is an island," as the saying goes. However true as it may be, you can still die with not a single soul grieving for your loss.
That is exactly what Marie thinks is going to happen to her as shE tries to figure out how to spend her last day on Earth at 3 in the morning when she has school in 4 hours. The bright glare of her phone screen as the message reads: Marie Tagalag. Age 16. You will die today.
A system, per se, that you cannot run away from no matter how hard you try. A system that tells you the day of your inevitable death. Marie's always good at running away from her problems; although she's not too sure on how to deal with this one.
October 5. Right, it really is today.
Text her friends? As if she has any. Tell her family? Like they would care.
Should she stay home and just let death creep up on her shoulder? Maybe. That seems like the best option right now. She can envision herself playing video games all night and eating her favorite chips until her last breath—and yeah, that really seems like the safest choice right now.
Is she happy now that she knows she’s going to kick the bucket? Not exactly, but she’s not that devastated when it comes down to it. Her life is as normal and as boring as one’s life gets to be - the most memorable thing that has ever happened to her being the release of her most awaited video game. She likes to be at school more than her own house, but it’s not like she’s happy to be there. She doesn’t like some of the food she eats, but she’ll take it from others’ hands when she’s offered it. Her life, although having slight ups and downs from time to time, can be considered as a straight line. Painfully average.
Marie looks at the stack of overdue paperwork sitting on her desk, at the tiny blue clock she had received for a gift last Christmas, and at her unmade bed. Is she going to miss being alive? Yes, she will.
Is she going to miss living?
She realizes she hasn't been living that much, anyway.
—
Marie decides to go to school on her death day.
It's not like things are going to change for her. She talks to people during group activities and she'll always be civil with her classmates, but she isn't particularly close with anyone. Her death day isn't a sob story she's willing to share with the whole world. Although, sometimes, a tiny part of her wants someone to care.
That's not the point, though. The whole purpose of Marie going to school is dropping off her pending schoolwork, so the teachers wouldn't have a hard time looking for her when she's gone, and she'll be done for the day.
So, she does exactly that. Marie drops her paperwork on the teachers' desk and gets ready to leave the school and enjoy the rest of the day—well, the remaining time of her life, in her room, trying to beat the boss level of her game and drowning herself in junk food, hopefully.
See, that's not what happens when she hears the familiar, comforting voice of a teacher call out to her, "Marie!"
Marie turns on her heel when she hears Ms. Liwanag call out to her, "Yes miss?"
Ms. Liwanag is someone—someone who's the complete opposite of Marie. She's loud and bright and Marie thinks she looks like someone who has fallen in love with life. It's not that Marie hates her—no, of course not—but she knows they'll never get along when their beliefs are on the opposite sides of the spectrum.
She appreciates Ms. Liwanag for trying, though. She's the only one who hasn't given up on her.
"What's wrong?"
And Ms. Liwanag always does this thing, where she looks at Marie like she cares, like a mother who is watching her daughter ride a two-wheeled bicycle for the first time - like she's proud but at the same time, worried. There's something about Ms. Liwanag that makes Marie want to spill all of the things she's been meaning to say onto her, but she doesn't. For multiple times, Marie has avoided answering her questions.
This time, though, she does. Just once, on her last day.
"Everything."
—
Marie doesn't cry and Ms. Liwanag just listens to her attentively until she finishes her story. She doesn't ask any more questions, but she does ask Marie to have lunch with her since "It's your last day, let me treat you to something nice," as Ms. Liwanag says.
If it were anyone else, she would have declined. If it weren't her last day, she wouldn't have said yes. But what more is there to lose? She still has some time left and she's going to eat the best food she can get.
—
They go everywhere and they eat everything Marie wants. Marie finds herself taking pictures, just to make the moment last longer, even if it's just a second.
If this is what it means to be living—to eat ice cream and to take photos of the sunset—then Marie would have done it sooner. She didn’t know it would be so much fun, to do little things but to feel so accomplished every time.
"Thank you, miss," Marie whispers to the woman beside her. A teacher, but most of all; a companion, a friend.
Ms. Liwanag chuckles, "For what? I didn't do anything."
"For letting me experience all of this," Marie exhales, "for letting me live a little longer."
Marie wants to cry, really. She wants to let out sixteen years’ worth of tears, of exhaustion, but the tell-tale sign of lightheadedness stops her from doing so. She doesn't see death, but she feels it peacefully overpowering her own body.
"Thank you," she says again as her last breath. For being my teacher, and for being my friend in my last moments.
—
Let me tell you a secret of the universe: there is no such thing as being alone when it comes to man. Marie doesn't die alone.
She's been keeping it a secret from Marie—her death day has come, too. The same day as her student, just a minute later.
Ms. Liwanag has been feeling death creep up on her shoulders all day; when she was driving the car, and especially when she was talking to Marie in the office. The dizziness and the lightheadedness were already there, but she keeps pushing them back. To live a little longer, to spend her last day with Marie—to show her student how beautiful living is because that's what teachers do; they teach and show us how beautiful something can be.
But right now, she's all alone now after Marie has gone. At this moment, Ms. Liwanag crumbles as death overpowers her next.
At this moment, a teacher, who has witnessed the painful death of her own student, dies and ceases to exist.
—
Let me tell you a secret of the universe: there is no such thing as being alone when it comes to man. “No man is an island," as the saying goes. A teacher will cease to exist without a student, and a student will cease to exist without a teacher. Their existence will always keep each other alive, literally and metaphorically.
Not only for this story and for Ms. Liwanag, but to all the teachers out there who put their students first, for those who never get tired of teaching and support from afar, and for those who continue to show their students the beauty of life. Sincerely, from the bottom of our hearts, we thank you for never making us feel alone and for never giving up on us.
Happy Teachers' Day!
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