About seven families in Cavallino gathered on the 29th of May to welcome father Luigi’s third visit in this part of Venice. The priest held the mass at the living room of the Macalele family. Joel and Lorna Macalele, originally from Laguna, offered their humble abode for the venue of this year’s mission and took pains for the preparations.

In his sermon, the minister addressed the young people. He advised them to choose their “idols” wisely and admire someone who can truly be a good influence in their young lives. The fighting congressman of the Philippines, Manny Pacquiao, is one very good example, said Fr. Luigi.

Just right before the eucharistic prayer, like he had always done,  Fr. Luigi gathered the children, embraced them with bread and chalice in hand and recited the prayers. This heartwarming gesture from the minister endears him to the Filipinos.

During the communion, a four-year old boy cut the communion line to get ahead. Then he held out his hands and looked up to the priest, waiting for one of those small round things to land on his hands. The poor little boy stood there like a hungry puppy until his mom took her away.  Fr Luigi, with a wide grin, caressed the little boy’s head.

When the mass ended, Fr. Luigi said grace over the table filled with food. The Sunday lunch was mainly prepared by Lorna Macalele, even as the other families who also brought food.

Everyone sang happy birthday in Italian and English and the celebrant blew out his candles on a cake that was amazingly made that morning. This was truly a special day for the Filipino families of Cavallino and for Fr. Luigi, who marked his 49th birthday on May 28.

“We are always blessed and grateful for this mission,” said one mother. She added that attending Sunday mass in someone’s home is out of the ordinary, and hearing mass in Filipino and English really feels different.

“I’m like closer to home and to God,” she admitted.

Both Jerson and Lukie are of the same age. They play well together and share everything they have. The boys ride the same bus to school and share the same class together, although it has been more than two weeks already that Jerson had been missing his class. And he will be missing a lot more.

Lukie and Jerson

My son and the other kids here often say that it wasn’t fair that their friend Jerson could be absent at school and at the same time be playing outdoors.

When the headache and vomiting started, Jerson’s parents brought him to the family doctor who is a general physician. They took him to a pediatrician when the family doctor would always say that there was nothing wrong with him.

The childrens’ doctor in the community ordered a blood and urine test and said Jerson should go into a strict diet. He weighed 50 kg, heavier than my wife and much bigger than most Italian kids his age.

The test came back normal. So the dorctor wanted an eye specialist to look the child up. A phone call from him would confirm the appointment is set.

My family and I were having supper Thursday evening when we heard an ambulance pass by. It never occurred to us that it came for Lukie’s friend. There is no need for the specialist now.

Jerson is the youngest the three boys. His father Edgar is a porter at a hotel and Teresa, the mother, works as a chambermaid part-time. Before Edgar came to Italy he already did a long stint in Saudi Arabia. Latter on when he got settled here, Edgar petitioned his family to come, but leaving  the eldest son Jibson to finish and graduate nursing.

Meeting for the first time, Lukie and Jerson became an instant hit to each other even though there was a communication gap between them.

Jerson’s first christmas here worried him. He asked his mother, “Mama, paano pa kaya ako makikita ni Santa Claus dito sa Italya?”

When he was a toddler, back in their home province in Laguna, he played with a disk battery and pushed it up his nose. The battery had already corroded when Doctors surgically removed it.

That afternoon before the ambulance came, Jerson asked his mom to wake him up once his friends have already arrived from school. When he woke up he sat on a chair on the terrace and dozed off again, sliding off the chair.

Jerson’s mother and brother Jerome took him in and tried to wake him up. He can be conscious from time to time but could not move a muscle. Jerson’s head started to hurt that made him scream in pain till he gets unconscious again.

At the Ospedale Civile in Venice, the medical personel found something in Jersons brain. Then they transported him to near by Padova to surgically remove the benign tumor.

The operation started at eight this morning and ended succesfully at two in the afternoon. Jerson will stay in the ICU for two days and the doctors adviced his family to go home and rest.

The family needs to have supper this night even though there is an atmosphere of worry in their home. What ever might be the extent of damage the tumor brought to the child’s brain, twenty percent of Jerson’s body or mental fuctions will be lost.

Edgar, Teresa and Jerome will say grace before the meal. They will pray that Jerson and his brother Jibson in the Philippines will soon fill the empty places on the their dinner table.

My wife and I were disappointed when we were informed that there were about 260 climbers who registered for the Mt. Pulag Pre-Christmas Climb. The sum shot up to 300 and it looked more like a battle for Thermopylae and not a climb, so we backed out. 

At 4:oo in the morning, on the day of the departure for Pulag, I woke up and my mind was on the hike. Half an hour later, after I got dressed and grabbed my camera bag, I bended down to kiss my wife who whisperred me to take care. Then Lovelyn snuggled in between our sons on our single bed for four to go back to sleep.

I planned it out of the blue that I would be going to Babattan. I thought. . . if the party of 300 will be going up, then I should go down.

Babattan in situated below KM 18 Ambassador Tublay on the west side. Lovelyn and her siblings grew up here where her father grew vegetables especially sayote. The narrow winding road is steep and dangerous. Pepeng peeled off most of the mountains here with such cruelty that I felt like I was in another world walking through.  

This is my third time to visit Babattan. The first was when Lovelyn and I weren’t married yet and I helped out it in harvesting carrots. My second was a week before the Pulag climb, where I jogged down then up to prepare my legs for Pulag. School children walking up the road, teased me that I was a woman because of my 3/4 jogging tights. I was told that the children of Babattan never get sick at school or miss their class because of illness. Their immune system are strong that even in the rainy months they don’t get sick. Come rain or shine and the temperature can be hot or cold, the kids walk up about 45 mins to be in class then down again after school.

I met a lot of folks along the way. Most of them farmers and they would never fail to offer to drop by their house later.

Beyond Babattan is Dukot. The cooperative store there serves as a turning point for vehicles. About a kilometer further is where the road ends. I tried to look for a trail of some sort but found nothing.

Back at the cooperative I found a foot path that led to two Ibaloi huts which was a surprise for me. I took some photos and made small talk with the residents. Roxas, a man who smoked Champion cigarets, didn’t know why their place is called Dukot. He offered me home-grown and made coffee, which I thought he placed too much sugar on mine. Then he gave me directions to where two houses at near byPiloy were taken away be landslides during the Pepeng calamity. A man died there Roxas said.

Later on, I took Roxas’s directions and reached Piloy.

On the night of October 3, 2009 at around 11:45, Jerry Limwas, his mother Piana and his three children ran out the house just in time before their house slid down into a ravine. Jerry didn’t have time to get his uncle who slept in the other house next to them.

In the morning Jerry was able to send two text messages to his wife who was in Hong Kong before the battery went dead. Juanita, Jerry’s wife just arrived yesterday when I came to talk to them.

Samson Maakay, a barangay council man of the nearby place of Baayan, received news via text messages of what happened. Samson Maakay went immediately to Piloy and headed the help for Jerry’s family and the retrieval of the body of Milandro Solte, he was 43.

A shanty, about a kilometer up where their house used to stand, that Jerry used as a tool shed was now their home. At the back stood a tent donated by the UN. Piana offered to guide me to their fallen homes. Before we headed down, I had to use their comfort room. Juanita handed me a packet of imported tissue and apologized for they have only a “kaybu” to offer. I told her I really don’t mind.

After seeing what’s left of their houses. We went to see where Jerry’s uncle was laid to rest. Under a house of a relative lay his uncle.  Beside the grave, just outside under the shade, lay an old man. I got my second dose of coffee and it was the same as the first, sweet. Their brew is pre sweetened I was told later. 

Half way back up to their shanty home, I forgot to interview the old man. I wanted to ask him about the place and how their names came about. Since this morning every time I ask some one why their place is called Piloy, Dukot on so on. . . all their answers were ”I don’t know”.  I saw this as a tragedy because their children might grow up not knowing important thing like how their place came about.

I finally thank and said good-bye to Jerry and his family. Then I noticed inside one of my pockets that I still have the tissue. Handing it back, Piana told me to keep it because I might go nature calling again. I laughed hard as Jerry gently nudged his mother and told me to use the tissue for my sweat.

The coffee gave me energy as trekked back up to 18, relieved I didn’t have to use the tissue again. I’m glad our plan for Pulag didn’t push through. My adventure lead me to Babattan, met folks, took photos of this beautiful place and most of all I got beat and tired.  To cap off this fine day, my wife, in-laws and I went to the benefit concert for Mike Santos, held at the only place I’ve been through that played real country music.

On our last night at Ambassador, I got to spend the night on top of mount Pulit. A mountain just near our home in 18 and this was the icing on my cake.

My trek was not a spiritual pilgrimage, but a bit of cultural learning I suppose. But what facinated me most was the people in this part of Tublay. A stranger walks by and it’s like a long lost relative to them who found his way back home.

I’m sure I’d be back home some time again.

I ask myself if they are true. Are they really helping these kids, setting a good example for others to follow? Or are they just helping themselves so they could always be in the lime light. I think it’s just for “show!”

Two days ago my wife frantically prepared dinner for our guests and we met them that night for the first time.

Lovelyn told me that she met a Baguio born lady in the web who had been reading her blog. She married a half Italian half Austrian gentleman and they settled in Austria for good. This lovely couple had a problem though. . . . they couldn’t have a child. So they adopted Christopher John.

Just months after Christopher was born, he was brought in to a hospital in Tarlac. Most probably the boy was sick. His biological parents wanted him to get well and wanted something more than that.

I bet it tore them into pieces. They prayed to God to protect their boy as they left Christopher there in the hospital in the care of nurses and doctors.

The authorities published in the paper and announced on the radio that a boy was left in the hospital. No one went back for the baby Christopher. So they transfered him to an orphanage at Pampanga and placed him up for adoption.

Our dinner guests, went through all sorts of trouble. Paid a fortune just to be labeled as “good normal people,” eligible to be  parents. It was a terrible experience they told us.

Christopher was four when he became thier son.  He was also aloof, scared, traumatized and cried always to things normal children would not cry to.

The cars frightened him along side with everything in the city or the outside world for that matter. He was afraid of people and even children of his age. He held onto his new parents’ arms and legs like glue.

When they ate, the boy would devour everything and would always put food in his pocket like it would like be the last meal of his life.

And then he got over it all.

The first time they brought Christopher to the beach, the boy said, “Wow ang dami daming ulan!”

I try to picture Christopher’s face, his first time with the ocean and I think he saw our Lord or felt Him that moment.

Then I took a good look at Christopher when we sat down for dinner. He complimented me politely for his plate of pasta which he finished with a smile.

Without a bit of trace from his past and a smile warm and bright as the sun, I saw one of the happiest boy in the world.

The family went back to the “Reception and Study Center for Children,” Christopher’s former home, some time ago. It was a good facility but in desperate need of serious funding. Mostly  good hearted “volunteers” run the center and they also act as parents for the children. Where ten children in every small house in the facility needs a papa and mama.

Christopher brought the lots and lots of rain he saw for the first time to his former mother at the orphanage. She was happy for her boy.

Christopher also met with his bestfriend at the orphanage and his friend was very sick. No one has adopted him yet. So Christopher asked his parents for a brother. Their answer was a painful. . . . “only if we could”.

I wonder how could this little boy, same age as Lukie now, could have brought the lots and lots of rain he saw for the first time here in our home and in our hearts too.

As the dinner and conversation drew on, Christopher, Lukie and Dylan played happily together, I thought back on the Brangelinas and Madonna and their children. They went through what our guests had gone through. . . . . and I was wrong.

Lukie got the floating bed, Dylan had his arm bands on and my wife; always looked sexy in her two piece outfit.

I practiced my free style form while my wife tended our boys. When I got tired and winded, I decided to join them. When I got to where they were, I stepped on something and thought it was a piece of glass. I felt pain on the side of my left big toe. I tried to ignore it for awhile but the pain grew from bad to worse. 

I limped back to shore with much difficulty. Then I sat down the sand and inspected my toe. I found a small puncture. I pinched my toe and let the blood flow out and it felt like there was a piece of small glass inside the wound.

I got a piece of broken shell with a sharp point and started to open the wound with it. It only double my discomfort and found nothing inside.

Thirty minutes had passed and my toe had swelled plus the pain covered the entire toe now and it was shooting up my foot. The was the time I went to look for the life guard.

The life guard who was sweeping the cemented path didn’t know what to do. That made me wonder. . . a life guard could not help me. So I walked away and noticed he did a good job in sweeping. Maybe if I wasn’t breathing when I walked over towards him, he could have helped me.

Forty five minutes and still in pain, my wife told me probably it was a jellyfish. Upon hearing that I remembered Spongebob’s friend Squidward Tentacles who said “there’s nothing to do in Bikini Bottom but get stung by jellyfish.” But it was not a jellyfish.

I told my family to pack up. I went ahead and they followed.  The kids were having the time of their lives but I really need to get home and thought of calling an ambulance.

At home my son Lukie got his encyclopedia of animals. He flipped the pages where the fishes were and started to look for the fish who hurt his father. That melted my heart.

My wife suggested that I’d better go to Ed’s house, a neighbor, and he drove me to the hospital.

In the emergency room the nurse told me there is nothing she could do except soak my foot in hot water. So she got a bucket, I placed my painful foot inside and she poured hot water in it. After awhile the excruciating pain died down and we went home.

My friend Ed laughingly told me that I only had my calluses softened in the hospital.

The next day, while I was at work, I told my colleague Marco what had happened. We started laughing when he told me how he went through what I had experienced. He also told me it was a “pesce ragno” that stung me.

The weaver fish is a small edible fish and it’s correctly called Weevers. In the old days people who got stung cut off their fingers or foot in a desperate attempt to relive them of the pain (Wikipedia).

There was an instant where I thought I might die from the sting. And while I was at the beach cursing, twisting and moaning I remembered my teacher. My teacher who is very ill and in great pain lying on her bed. Who could only utter the words, “is it time?”

Two days ago I called her when I got hold of her number. The man I talked to politely told me that my teacher was resting and could not talk because of her cough. He added that I’d better try the next day and I didn’t.

I don’t have the courage to call her anymore, to talk to her and say “thank you”. I’m afraid I might make things worse for my Ma’m Clarita.

To relieve me from my cowardness, I had done what my teacher had taught me and that is . . . . . to write.

I guess the Weever has taught me a lesson. . . . that life brings us all sorts of pain. And that we learn from our sufferings, we grow from our agony, we endure the wrechedness even though it would mean that we might loose the ones we love.

I was alone inside the service elevator and when I pushed the button for ground floor, I broke down and cried.

The last time this happened to me at work was when the children of Gaza were dying. I wrote a piece for those children to ease my pain. And here I am again trying to ease my pain.

Mrs. Clarita Sumahit was our Journalism teacher in first year at University of Baguio Prep High School. She had long hair with curls, dressed neatly everyday and she was one teacher who never raised a voice or got angry at anybody. And that made her one of the most beloved teachers at UB high.

Ma’m Sumahit was fond of giving us pop quizzes. Where she would say the meaning of ten words and we would try to write down what those words were. It was tough and no one would get pass by three correct words. She praised me one time when I guessed the word “confetti” even though I spelled it wrong.

It was during my sophomore year where depression hit me. I couldn’t tell where it came from or why. One day I woke up then “BAM” I was blue. I couldn’t shake it off and didn’t tell anybody.

One day while I was climbing up those steep step at UB high, I saw Ma’m Sumahit coming down for her P.M. class. She said hello and asked how I was doing. I don’t know why, but I told her the truth.

Whatever she said to me that day were long forgoten. But I thank her for listening, caring and giving advice even though she was all ready late for her class.

Probably it wasn’t only for my family name that she took me to become a reporter for the school paper UB Newslite. She didn’t ask me, she just said I’m one of the reporters.

I wasn’t good at writing. I wasn’t good at any subjects back then. In fact I struggled with my grades. But as an adviser for the school paper, Ma’m Sumahit took me. I think she was the only person who believed I could write.

But it would take many years before I could find my “quill” and start to write.

I’m happily married with two boys. I’m a porter at a hotel here in Italy. A part time maid and I write, thanks to Mrs. Sumahit.

I thank her for believing, at a time where I only took the job as a reporter for kicks.

If the author Mitch Albom’s greatest mentor was Morrie Schwartz, mine is Clarita Sumahit. She is my Morrie.

Our Hotel trained us to converse with our arrivals. But that day all I could say was ” Buongiorno Signor Bocelli. I should have mentioned my “pizana”, who sang with him sometime ago.

My colleauge and I brought up the suit cases into their room and Veronica Berti thanked us and got no tip.

That was the first and last time I saw Mr. Bocelli. He stayed inside the suite, room 308, most of the time till the next day for his concert at Piazza San Marco.

During lunch time, the day the singer came, I bragged to my workmates, like it was a big deal, that I brought in the famous tenor. Our female met came in and saw Fabbio, a waiter for breakfast,  had filled his plates with so much food. The Met irked by what she saw  began bashing Fabbio and his food with words.

“You do not fill your plate with that much food” she lamented, adding that he should also think of the others who will be coming in late to eat. “What if they won’t find any thing more for lunch?” the met ended.

Deeply embarrassed, Fabbio mumbled, “Si va bene.” Lowered his head and ate slowly.

Like the rest of employees in the mess hall, I was shocked by what had happened.

“Fabbio” I blurted out, “Eat all you can eat. The whole world is in economic crisis, children die in poor countries and we throw food like garbage in this hotel. The ones who will be coming in late won’t die of hunger, they can eat at the next turn or the third”.

The met left. The room fell in silence and I was the only one who heard what I said.

Then I heard a voice saying the word “COWARD!” and I heard it loud and clear.

At half past three in the afternoon, I helped a taxi driver unload six heavy luggage off the boat. Then helped our three guests get off too greeting them warmly even though it was burning hot that day and made small talk.

A married couple, maybe past their fifties, and their adult son were from Canada. I figured that out from the maple leaf design on the tags of their bags. The taxi boat was pre paid and the wife handed out a 50 euro bill to the driver as a tip.

“Holy cow, mother mary, what the hell. . . . . a 50 euro tip for a taxi driver! Boy they make more money than the doctors here, have second homes near a beach or in the mountains, have two i-phones on their dash boards and a big tip!”  I kept on muttering these words while I was pushing and pulling the heavy bags inside the hotel.

I took care of the bags professionally, brought them in the room and placed them perfectly on the racks. The husband said that his wife was in another other room where their son was and she would give me the tip.

I rushed quickly to the other room on the next floor and met them on the way as they were heading back. After placing  the son’s bags in his room, I returned once again to the other room and found the door closed.

Thirty minutes later, putting on my thickest face (like the Ilokano saying: “puskulam ti rupam”), I rang the room once. But no one answered, they must be out on the terrace. I got back to work on the same floor carrying out the laundry and tried to forget all about the tip.

The wife gave me a fright when she came in the stock room and asked for more pillows. I got two normal ones and a pair of feathered pillows. The chamber maid came as I was slipping in the pillow covers and said, “that’s my job”. I told her I was just helping and she thanked me.

I brought them in and laid the head cushions on the sofa and just as I was about to leave I asked, “I’m very sorry Ma’m, I brought up your bags earlier and your husband said you were to give me a tip?”

“Oh, I’m sorry” she said and countinued, ”Ooh, I can’t find my purse.”

She was out of sight for a moment and said something to me. Then she handed out 40 euros. I took them with a wide smile on my face. I said thank you very much and she closed the door.

As I walked through the corridor, I wondered what she meant when she said to me, “That is something you would say.”

As we climbed up a level, our classroom was better lit this time. Now we had real windows and could see the sky.

When christmas party came, our adviser Mrs. Jacaban, got in trouble with the faculty and head of school.

We made a fruit punch and thanks to our teacher, she let us spike up the drink with gin. We held our alcohol well and no one vomited (I think). But Mrs. Jacaban had made her mistake.

If there was one teacher who loved to drink, it was Sir Bagnus Cudiamat. A seasoned journalist whose collum at the city papers untitled, “Apros ken Kudkod” is still missed and of course he taught us journalism. Mr. Cudiamat would come into class, recess time was still an hour away, with a scent of a saint; San Miguel, in his breath. He would begin the class and talk to the blackboard.

At this year I had my second fight, this time it was serious. We were all at the Athletic Bowl practicing our cheering routine when the fight was set up by the promoters.

Outside the bowl my adversary quickly brought me down, sat on my belly and rained his fists down on face. He only stopped when I poked a finger in his eye where he got off me and we both stood up. I was ready to get back at him when all of a sudden his promoter stopped the fight.

I was black and blue, red with a nose bleed and a cut on the lip.

When we got back at the bowl, my backer told me I could still win the fight. He pointed at my enemy who sat at the rim of the oval with his back against us. I ran, then jumped and kicked him hard on the head. The blow got his face burried in the ground. Then I ran again.  Away from my opponent this time.

He chased me with a big rock on his hand and I found Sir Bagnus under a tree and sat with him. When I told him what had happened, my teacher stood up and shielded me from a possible flying rock.

Later, when my father got news about the fight, he told me that my opponent is his “ina-anak” in baptism.

I should have listened more to the lectures of Mr Cudiamat, I owe him that. I could have been a better writer now. But that is beside the point. He was there for me when I was in danger but I wasn’t there for him when he always tried to teach me at class.

I dedicate this to our teacher Sir Bagnus Cudiamat who is now in heaven teaching journalism to angels.

One time he asked the class what do our parents tell us before we go out the house. Without even raising my hand I blurted out, “drink moderately”. My classmates’s laughter stoped when Mr. Lopez’s face went into a serious mode and asked the same question again.

There was nothing fresh about being a freshman at UB prep. We were held way down the high school building near the Dangwa terminal. It was like a dungeon and our classroom was poorly lit. The smile of Carmela Batil, one of my classmates, was way brighter than the dim flouricent lights. Carmela was small but her looks took her to compete for the school pageant. One teacher advised her to eat plenty of potatoes, to make her tall. I thought milk was better because to a Benguet beauty like Carmela, potatoes would only make her legs bigger.

The ones sitted near the wooden wall that divided us from the next room, had dificulty in concentrating on what whatever that was being taught, because they could hear the other teacher in the next room lecturing another subject.

Geofrey Dagarag nominated me as class vice president and he became my friend. I won by a mudslide. All those who voted for me didn’t know that I was as dumb as a rock. In the suceeding years to come no one dared to nominate me again for any position.

We also elected for our muse. And I remember one nominee who wore a yellow skirt. She kept covering her mouth with her hand when they were presented infront for class viewing. This nominee became my first.

The dark and deep stairs that led to Dangwa had some graffiti on the walls. The names of some students; Jodrix, Madrix, Orlix, Hodrix and so on were visible in silver glittering spray paint.

The names of my classmates that sounded nice and cool were Shedrac Ciriaco, Van Clayton Pagaduan, Yvette and Monday Wagis.

I had my first fight with an afternoon kid name Mavin Diocares. It all started when we both knew we had the same liking for a girl. The referee, Ronald Quirimit, another classmate of mine, took all the punches and kicks and spit that we threw at each other. It was declared a draw after and Ronald survived the beating. 

The brians of the class were mostly males. Geofrey was one, then there’s Jonathan Montemayor, Micheal Ochoco and Julius Paduyao. The only girl I knew who topped back then was Minerva, but she was with the P.M. class.

I think it’s safe to say that the first person to believe I could write was Mrs. Clarita Sumahit. She taught us Journalism and was the adviser of the UB Newlite school paper. Mrs. Sumahit took me and Edwin Oligo as reporters.

One of the coolest places to hangout was at the Dap-ayan hall. With its red carpeted steps and pine wood furnishings, I fell in love with this place. The view from there of the city market and the disaster waiting to happen condemned building of the Hilltop Hotel, was breathtaking. There was a black grand old piano on the stage. And we held leadership seminars and afternoon dances at the Dap-ayan.

The secluded steps of the RnR canteen, that sold us corned beef sandwich on a bun which was 99% potato and 1% corned beef, was another site.

At the side of the downward road that lead to the high school building from Asumption road, stood Alnos trees. And students sit at the ledges where the Alnos gave shade was a nice hangout too.

Campomanes where no one played chess at those chesstables. The library at the Commerce building. The scouting office of Sir Jorge Borja and I remember there was a makiwara there. All these were nice “tambayans”.

Finally the morge at the top of the Engineering building. With the foul smell and dead bodies laying around, there I had my first kiss with the nominee earlier. We also puffed and smoked Marlboros there.

All these places are gone now and these led me to do this piece. To remember and at least preserve the memories of being a freshman at UBHS.

I thought of the people who lost their lives in the earth quake while I was making an overhand knot with the black cloth. I went back to the 1990 quake too, back home. Then I remembered how Diego, my wife’s patron, told her one day how embarassing was the Prime Minister Silvio Brulusconi’s comment on the in coming President of the United States Barrak Obama. Saying that Mr. Obama is “tanned”.

I’m amazed by the innocence of the PM’s observation on the disaster this time. He said that the devastated area “loks like a camping site” (for tourists). Diego won’t be here to talk about this to my wife because he killed himself.

Lukie saw that my wife was crying when she got the news on the phone. When he understood what just happened, Lukie placed a hand on his mother’s shoulder and said, “It’s okay Mama you will still find another job”.

I’m so relieved on how innocent my son took this loss.

Lovelyn cleaned, washed, ironed and cooked for Diego and his family. She visited, more than once, his employer when he was in the hospital. She often told me that he was a good man. Then when Diego got his first brush of death, due to a heart attack, that’s where things started to crumble.

Diego got depressed, felt lonely and useless. He talked about his two children and how they changed and also about the divorce that was mutual. He often times told her about suicide.

Lovelyn tried to help even though she didn’t know how to. She talked to Diego and listened to him too. Then one night she had a dream, it frightens me when she has this nightmares because she sees dead people and sometimes she fells them too, she saw a coffin but couldn’t know who died. Lovelyn knew, that night when it awakened her, that someone will pass away.

The last time Lovelyn talked to Diego, she wondered why he was only taking a brief case to Piemonte, Diego’s home town for a week, and left it for my wife to see it near to where she was ironing. Lovelyn was worried so she sent him a text message and Diego assured her that he made the five hour drive safely.  

When we talk about it, it made sense to everything but it’s over now.

It would be hard on my wife these following weeks maybe months, where she wouldn’t have to wake up early to get to work. Where she wouldn’t have to chase boats and buses to get in time to Diego’s house. Where she would only have our house to clean, cook and work on. She will miss her good patron.

She cries a lot but I know she will get over it. Lovelyn is one tough cookie much stronger then me. And I know she will also find time to untie the black ribbon she has on her and forgive herself.