The wind was sweeping almost everything on its path. The heavy raindrops went along with it and I can feel them prickling my elbow as they pass through the tiny spaces on the ledges of our window. I watched as our neighbor, Japan (now don’t start asking me how he got it because I haven’t got the slightest clue either) clutch his orange raincoat as he succeded in fastening Manay Salome’s sari-sari store. Another neighbor, a boy named NG (en-gee) passed by Japan carrying a ladder he borrowed from Cha Melba. His mom, Ate Nilan must have sent him and was probably fastening things on their own home.
I was supposed to go to a friend’s birthday party at her house but I guess, like school, it was also suspended. The power’s out and won’t be around for days. For now, we are preoccupied by the action the storm was showing us. It’s funny how natural calamities, expecially storms keep us fixated as it shows off its despicable drama.
And it went on until night time. It kept having catharsis every other 5 minutes. I can tell despite of everyone being in bed as early as 8, nobody was asleep. It was just so fucking scary that I can’t help but think of the worst. Like being a casualty of another storm surge that comes in our country every year. My body being buried alive in a pile of mud, water and debris or being found rotting under the sun or being found bloated and unrecognizable or being hanged upside down on trees. Or maybe I didn’t die but has witnessed how I lost everything. I couldn’t bear to think that. I’d rather choose to die.
At times like these, those moments when you feel like it’s your time, I pray not for salvation but for reconciliation and grace. Like I’m preparing myself and that I’m ready. And its terrifying to think about it because it makes me think of myself as a pessimistic.
Yet, I still live.