Little Miss Apple Pie

I wrote the one stanza poem on the picture above. The raw photo is from Nikki's Deviantart account. :) I wrote two poems this evening, both are short and untitled. Below this paragraph is the other poem I wrote. I hope you like it :)

Whoever said that Neverland does not exist haven’t met a man as true as he is
He is not Peter, I am not Wendy, and there is no Captain Hooke, no little fairy
There is only him and I in this fairy-tale like reality

I don’t need pixie dust to fly; just being next to him makes me feel so high
I am not afraid to fall, for in his arms I know I will be safely caught
There is nothing compared to the love that he had brought
He is my happy thought…

—- Well it is obviously inspired by Disney’s Peter Pan haha I really love that particular Disney film so I pulled inspiration from it. Oh I’m living in Neverland alright… LOL :D Follow me on Twitter! :D » Twitter.com/miavenus

Prudence - or self-control; careful about one’s conduct; circumspect; to avoid offending one’s fellowmen and care in speaking; modesty and care not to boast of one’s exploits or intellectual prowess. Careful about one’s conduct; circumspect.

It is actually okay to talk about prudence and all those related things. But comparing yourself to another person is another thing, and to some people, it must not be done. Especially if you are comparing yourself to someone ten times more hardworking than you are. Ika nga nila in Filipino, “Okay lang mag yabang kung may ipagyayabang naman.” Why talk about other person’s prudence if you yourself does not have it? Or perhaps, sometimes you lose it? There really is no point in ranting about other people’s business and pulling them down through it. Does “CRAB MENTALITY” rings a bell?

Anyway, what I am only trying to say is that, we all do not have the right to judge other people and giving a lecture in prudence if we, ourselves, lacks from it. It only proves how shallow, immature, judgmental and disrespectful you truly are.

Do a self-assessment first before jumping into conclusions. Life is full of motherfuckers, DO NOT add up to their growing population.

(A Prequel to “It’s Time to Say Adieu”)

I never really like saying goodbye to people even if I know where they will be going.  I actually often get the feeling that I will not be permanently seeing those people, and that they will not remember me. So instead of saying bye, I would just simply say “see you”. But perhaps there really are incidents in one’s life that would trigger them to say those words that they do not really like to say. For instance, in my case, saying the word goodbye.


There is one incident in my life that I have accidentally said goodbye to someone that I dearly loved. I did not intend to say it of course; it just slipped from my mouth. I never knew such word… such simple word, would bring me the greatest sorrow in life.


    It happened last April. 



One day my elder half-brother called me up and asked me if I could come with him to visit our father. Enthralled, I told my mom about it and she gave me permission to visit my papa. It has been over ten months since I have last seen him and for some unknown reason, I got excited. The 25th day of April came and I walked along side my brother to our father’s house in Pasig.  When we finally got to our father’s house, his wife and his adopted three year old son welcomed us. Apparently, papa was still serving in the church by that time so we waited for him until lunch time. He arrived at around fifteen minutes past twelve in the afternoon, I could not really explain what I felt when I saw him going up the stairs from the window of their humble home, one thing is for sure though, I could not wait to give him a big warm hug. He was a little surprised when he saw me sitting on the couch alone; he said he was not expecting me to be there.


My father hugged me really tight and I felt a weird sensation that ran down my spine. Suddenly tears started welling up in my eyes but I held it back with all my might. I did not want him to see me in tears. I do not want anyone to see me in tears, especially in situations like this. It took me years to build up this kind of strength and I will not let a simple mushy situation like this one to have it all put into waste and although my father’s warm and caring hug was my downfall, I tried my best not to let it show and not let my emotions flow.


So we had lunch, and while eating, my papa started telling us stories of him being a professor in UP back in the 80’s and I asked him if he is willing to teach music again. Because I know a school that has a choir that badly needed his help, for you see, my father was a brilliant musician. I do not mean to brag, but he has made a name in the music industry and is quite well-renowned. Oh yes, I am an extremely proud daughter. But my papa only smiled and said that he is already teaching music at the parish church where he is serving. I was astonished of course, with his great skill and talent he could actually earn a living, like what he did before. The church might be giving him an allowance, but surely it is not enough to cover up all his family’s expenses. But I was too foolishly indulged in the “art” of earning a living back then that I practically forgot that my father was God’s faithful servant. I realized that I am concerned about him and his family too, believe it or not, I really am. I actually cared without knowing it. Perhaps that is why I wanted him to get a stable job with a, somehow, good paycheck.


After lunch, we lounged on their small living room and watched the Sunday noontime show. I should probably be bored and sleepy, but something unexplainable was keeping me from dozing off. Then my father started telling us stories of those old singers from the noontime show and where and how they started their careers. His stories are based from his personal experiences with the artists themselves, and I find it really funny of myself to actually be entertained by his stories. Perhaps, because he is a soft-spoken man that it is impossible not to listen or maybe because I am just like he or he is just like me. Either way, I saw a part of me in him as he spoke and I find it both weird and fascinating at the same time. I have always wondered where I got that particular side of me, I never, for a second, thought that I got that from him. Well, of course, what do I know about him? He was not there while I was growing up, I have never even spoken to him nor seen him for nearly thirteen years until just last June of 2009, when my auntie set us up to meet in her music school in Antipolo. This is our second meeting, if that is how it is ought to be called, or perhaps “bonding” is the right term. I am not really sure.


Another thing that made me even more interested to listen to him is when he started telling me about his writing history. That was then I remembered that I have brought with me a copy of the literary folio from school. I had two poems and two photo essays in it so I decided to give my father a copy. He was more proud than I have expected him to be, I felt a little overwhelmed. And then he shared to me his campus journalism experiences. He said he was a former Editor-in-Chief of their school publication way back in his high school and college days. “You know mija, you could be an Editor-in-Chief too.” He said and I only snorted and told him how impossible that was but he smiled at me as if assuring me that I could really be an editor one day. He really is a fascinating man. Not only that, we also seem to share the same skill and passion for writing, photography and drawing.


Then my mobile phone rang. Unexpectedly, my papa picked up my phone from the little coffee table and looked at the senders name on the screen. I saw his forehead wrinkled when he saw the picture and the name of the sender on my mobile phones’ screen. It was the man that I was dating. “Who is Mr. V******?” He asked and my brother and I exchanged glances, and then finally, my brother told him about the sender’s identity. My father only scratched his chin and said, “Ask this man to come with us on the fifteenth in our farm in Morong, I want to get to know him and see if he is fit for you.” I totally burst out laughing and told him that it really is not necessary to do that, but he insisted. “This man must know your true worth and must treat you well.” I wanted to laugh again, but as the words sink in, I realized that my father is right. I never thought that he cares for me that much. My papa pulled me close to him and kissed me on the side of the head. It felt so great and for the first time I felt secured. I stayed there in his arms, looking vulnerable, and inside, my arms are aching to tightly wrap them around him. I did not let the chance pass me by again, so I hugged him tight.


    The clock struck two-thirty and it told us that it was time for us to go for papa has to go back to the church of Sta. Clara de Montefalco for the three o’clock mass. I really did not want to leave just yet; I want to stay there with papa a little longer, just a little longer. But my brother stood up from the couch telling me that we really should be going, so I slowly got to my feet as if standing up was a burden. My brother and I got ready to leave as papa changed his shirt in his bedroom. When he was done, we all went down and papa bid us goodbye, and instead of saying “see you later,” like I would normally say, I blurted out “Goodbye papa,” unexpectedly and one last time my papa hugged me really tight. I heard some of his neighbors asking him who I was and although I was not looking, I heard the sound of happiness in his voice when he said that I am his daughter.


I did not want to let go of that hug just yet, I wish I never really did or perhaps at least I went with him to church that day and heard the three o’clock mass instead. Just a little more time, a little more time to get to know him better, a little more time to make him feel loved by me, a little more time for me to let him know how much I really love him and how much my heart aches for him. For a week later, May 2, 2010, he died of a heart attack. I was not prepared to let him go just yet, and I must admit that until now I have not fully grasped the fact that he is gone. I should have known, when I accidentally bid him goodbye, that it would be the last time that I will be seeing him. I would have spent more time with him. I will never forget though, that in those precious few hours we were given, he did not fail to let me know how much he loves me and how much he cares for me. I will never forget that one precious moment in my life.


I’ll see you later pa.


“Never say goodbye, because saying goodbye means going away… and going away means forgetting.” – Peter Pan

Every person has a life story to share and here is a portion of mine.

I was only four years old when I last saw my father. Since then I never heard from him. But I was told a lot of stories about him, what he was like, what he does and who he is. Those stories formed an image inside my head, and it was of a man that I must despise and must not look for and expect from. I grew up not wanting to ever see my father.

But no matter how hard I try to tell myself that he is a useless and uncaring man, at the back of my mind I fabricated the image of the real father I was looking for. Someone who would treat me as if I am a princess, someone who is quite over protective. Someone who would appreciate the things that I do and someone who would be proud to say that I am his daughter and that I inherited my skills and abilities from him. Nearly thirteen years later, I found out that the father image I was looking for had always been in the man that I have always considered as useless and uncaring: My biological father. I was able to see him, hug him, talk to him and make him proud of me. He was not the person I was told he is, apparently he become a renewed man.

I was able to be with him twice and on the second time I knew I wanted to see him often. I wanted to get to know him more; I was looking forward to spending more time with him. I was so happy on that second time, not knowing that it would be the last.

A week later he passed away while playing the piano on a mass at the church where he serves. He died on a very beautiful day, time and place. He died on a Sunday, during the four o’clock mass at the beautiful church where he was a choir master and a devotee; it was also Easter season. He lost consciousness and fell on his piano, everyone screamed and panicked. They brought him to the hospital but he was declared dead on arrival. He died in the church of Santa Clara de Montefalco in Pasig.

I know a Santa Clara church in Katipunan and I know very well that I was taken away from my father on that church for a very complicated and personal reason. On the last day I was with him he told me that the reason why he became devoted to Santa Clara de Montefalco was because he was hoping that someday Santa Clara would bring me back to him so that he could hold me in his arms again. I realized that I was his favorite child, and all those years that I keep on saying that I hate him and that I do not want to see him, he was longing for his baby girl.

During his three day wake, I met a lot of people he worked with and people he had taught. I was told a lot of great stories about him, like what a great musician he is and what a great, kind, caring and loving teacher he is. I envy his students; I honestly do, for they know my father better than I do, apart from that I envy them because they were able to spend more time with him. I tried not to cry, I held back my tears during his wake; I didn’t want my mother to see me crying, though she was very supportive anyway. But on the last night of his wake, I burst out crying in my uncle’s arms. I cried not only because my father is gone, but also because of the broken plans I had for us. I planned to invite him on my eighteenth birthday as my seventeenth dance, I wanted him to be there on my wedding day, to either take me to the altar or to play my wedding march, I also wanted him to see my future children but apparently it will never happen. Perhaps, I have planned those things too early. I guess I never learned that expecting from plans will always lead to great disappointments. But I promised myself that it would be the last time that I would expect for things to happen. For I felt too much pain from losing someone I dearly love.

He was cremated four days later and I let the tears fall as if no one was watching as I watch him being laid to a box and put into a big machine to be burned into ashes. When the cremation was over, they took him out of the machine and what we all saw surprised us, his remains were of powder white ashes. It was then I said my last goodbye and it was also then that I remembered that I have not even told him how much I love him.

I love you papà, and it was nice meeting you, but it is time to say adieu.