Baykoy and The Only Something
This is a gripping and magical tale of a little Filipino girl who goes by an endearing nickname, Baykoy.
It’s a wild-bursting battle against her beliefs in angels and the powers of heaven as she gets to confront and experience the supernatural realms that may hold the supreme truths of death and life cycles while coping with grief and loss.
The story is told through the heart-convulsing letters of a woman to her niece, detailing her childhood in the Philippines.
Age: Four years old.
— indomitable —
The Beautiful Cherub – 2
Jiji’s casket mooned away in the living room for days and nights. A tent was built outside for mourners. First family members, relatives, neighbors, friends and church people were present for vigil service. There was a lot going on. Quite an animated affair, actually. They prayed and sang gospel songs. They cooked and feasted on sumptuous meals. They laughed and cried. They shared personal stories and maybe even gossiped. They played card and board games. While your mother and I would simply observe. As if from a close distance. Though I remember us being quiet. Just solemnly quiet. As our aunts would look after us. It was a confusing time.
A relative taught me a card game. My four-year-old brain couldn’t grasp it. So I just sat on top of that huge round table and became a spectator instead. Rain poured. Thunderstorms growled through. Lightning struck down. We ran inside. Packed. Squished. Some got caught by the splash. Amidst the blasting nature, cheerful laughter and merry chitchats were thrown into air. Again, I was confused. I can’t remember where your mother was. Perhaps, she was already sound asleep. But I was there in the crowded living room, with a puzzle to solve in my head.
The puzzle of life and death.
On one of these days, one of your grandma’s sisters disappeared. She was one of our beloved aunts. She was quiet and domesticated. She was loving and caring. She loved us kids.
She loved Jiji the most.
Agitation shook the house. People were worried. They investigated the woods, nearby houses, and even the vast rice fields. They called out her name. They prayed. They prayed for her safety. In our family, prayer was the supreme help of all.
Later in the evening, she came home. Drenched in tears. Heavy-laden spirit. They interrogated her. In a comforting tone. She said she rested up in a tree somewhere. To cry it all out. As Jiji’s passing had just sunk into her. She prayed, too. But she prayed to die. So she could take care of him again. Then she sang a gospel song. Something in the lyrics told her to go home. She did.
I witnessed it all. Without an understanding. Though my heart understood something. It understood love and sadness. A lot of it. When I grew older, I asked them about it. They told me the exact details. The details scribbled above. As my memory recollection barged in. Vague and vivid at once. It surprised and bewildered me at the same time.
One thing I knew for certain, my heart understood something.
It understood love and sadness. A lot of it.
As Jiji’s casket was laid in grandma and grandpa’s home for days and nights.
As your mother and I would simply observe. As if from a close distance.
It was a confusing time.
— Indomitable —