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-bursting letters of a woman to her niece, detailing her childhood in the Philippines.
Age: Four years old.
— indomitable —
The Beautiful Cherub – 5
An esoteric discovery thrilled up my innocence a lot more.
Your grandmother took home the glass jar filled with Jiji’s blood removed during the embalming process.
It was an eerie day. Quiet at home. Your mother and I were in the living room. We were browsing through old books. Your grandfather was not around. It was a sunny afternoon. Not humid. As we could hear the soft gush of the wind breezing in from the open windows. It should have been a delightful day.
Clanking clicked in. Along with a gentle cry. Footsteps thomped in, and they were heading out of the kitchen back door.
My curiosity kicked in. I dashed after the footsteps. Your mother stayed put.
I followed your grandmother’s trail. Out into the backyard. Green grass all around. Bamboo trees also stood with pride. Along with tropical fruit trees, bushes.
The soft gush of the wind told me not to worry. The sunny afternoon radiated with its beauty.
And there she was. With her back on me. Without looking back. Though I knew she knew somebody was watching closeby.
She was holding a glass jar filled with dark red liquid. Really awfully dark red liquid. The kind that I had never seen before. The kind that jolted alarm, curiosity and astonishment inside of me. All at once.
She was moaning and sobbing. Perhaps, she was also whispering prayers. But it was all I could hear. Just the moaning and the sobbing. She was still in grief. My heart knew that for sure. Though I had no idea what the dark red liquid was. Until it was revealed to me years later.
She delivered it to the ground. She knelt down to inspect it and ponder on it. She was calm and collected. Birds and crickets suddenly chirped around. It didn’t make her budge. She kept on staring at it. I stood there quietly. As my innocence struggled to understand it all.
It lasted for quite a while. The eerie silence. The birds and crickets chirping along. The bamboo trees creaking. The soft gush of the wind. The sunny afternoon. Your grandmother kneeling down before the glass jar filled with dark red liquid. Really awfully dark red liquid. Which turned out to be the beautiful cherub’s blood.
I never asked your grandmother why she did it. I just came to understand its meaning.
Broncho-pneumonia took Jiji’s life. He was born on the fourth of August in 1981. Since his death, your grandmother hardly spoke a word on the beautiful cherub’s birthday. I never noticed it until I got older.
Once I asked your grandmother about him. She never responded. She just gave me a scowl. As tears threatened to burst out.
Though in one family discussion, I overheard her say, “He shouldn’t have been his father’s junior. It was already a bad omen. We need to believe in superstitions sometimes.”
While other relatives would say, “His cherubic beauty was enticing enough for witches. They took him. They killed him and they owned him.”
As for me, I believed the angels rescued him from something early on.
The only something.
Life in an unkind world.
— Indomitable —