I used to have a best friend online. He’s dark, attractive, and of Latino descent. He speaks Spanish and English. He used to be my English teacher and taught me some Spanish. We were very close. It felt like I’ve known him for so long… like I’ve met him personally. He knows me very well. He feels it when I’m sad, he knows it when I’m mad, and he knows if there’s something bothering me.

For some reason, the friendship that we treasured the most breathes its last breath. He let go of me, I let go of him. The pain of losing him didn’t hit me that much - until one day; it was the day when I broke down and cry. It felt like I broke up with a boyfriend. The pain and the tears I was holding for so long; I finally let go of them.

One thing that I won’t forget about him is his favorite poet; Pablo Neruda. I’m not fond of reading poems, so I didn’t care who Pablo Neruda was. He uses that name as his YM Id. At one point, I asked him what it means by his YM Id. He was surprised that I didn’t know. He told me about him, why he likes Neruda, and most especially, his poems about love.

Months had past; we didn’t communicate anymore. One time, I was sitting on Carmen’s chair. I was finishing up on something. I took a look on her cork board and I noticed a poem. At the lower part of the paper, there was a highlighted name which on that instant, reminded me of Luis. The name was Pablo Neruda and the title of the poem strikes me; “If you forget me…”

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.

Pablo Neruda

The last thing he said to me was “I wish I can forget you.” I didn’t response. I was quiet and didn’t even bother to break the silence but this poem seems like the response I’ve been keeping inside.

“Car….I, uhm… he would beat me up. I’m a battered girlfriend.”

I stared at my friend. My mozzarella-covered fork with pasta noodles dangling from all sides hanged in mid-air.

For 5 seconds I couldn’t move. And then, I put my fork down.

My friend stared back at me. Her eyes were waiting for me to say something. Instead, I reached out for her hand and gently squeezed it.

Finally, I broke my silence. “Oh… I’m so sorry to hear that.”

————————————————————————————————

My friend is only 5 feet flat; her ex-boyfriend is about 5’10. He is almost twice her size and this picture was running in my head as I listened to her. My eyes started to water.

She says it didn’t just happen one time. The beatings lingered since they lived together. He would flare up whenever she would get into his nerves (whatever that meant) and would resort to physical abuse when words are not enough to unleash his anger.

They worked on projects together as trainors. The guy was a motivational speaker, and girls would swoon over him. It was in India when she finally decided to escape from the clutches of her boyfriend’s “claws”. Penniless and only with her passport in hand she scrambled out of their hotel building and into the streets of Bangalore not knowing where to go. She ran so far away until she thought it was safe to stop. She begged a shop owner to allow her to use the phone for free. Her tears choked her words as she called home (Manila).

———————————————————————————————-

We were at Italianni’s, Greenbelt. My emotions started to drown out the music and the chatter from the other tables. I tried to compose myself lest I breakdown and create a scene. Usually, I would know what to say. But at that moment, nothing came out of me. Just a sigh.

She arrived in Manila with bruises all over her body. Her parents were able to convince her to see a doctor. Yet, she doesn’t want to file for a police report.

The trauma has given her anxiety attacks from time to time. However, my friend claims she is much stronger now. And I’d like to believe it. But I know she will never be the same. There is a dent in her soul.

I am livid. Yet, I do not know who to blame. When I think of her I am also haunted by her past. Her healing is beyond words. I can only give her my silence as she speaks. And before we said good-bye I assured her by saying I don’t think less of her in any way.

She doesn’t know that I shed tears for her whenever she comes to mind.

“Some people come into our lives and quickly go. Some people make our souls dance. They awaken us to a new understanding with the passing whisper of their wisdom. Some people make the sky more beautiful to gaze upon. They stay in our lives for awhile, leave footprints in our hearts, and we are never ever the same..”

I had lunch yesterday with my good friends Chingkee and Bentley.

I met Chingkee and Sandy in college (Sandy is now based in Iligan and sometimes visits Manila). We’ve been friends for 18 years now. And then they introduced me to Bentley. I’ve known him for 13 years, I think.

I need to stress the number of years: 18 and 13. That’s a long, long time to be friends with your friends. Relationships don’t come by easy now. There are a lot of distractions. In a hi-tech world where everything is instant, easy and disposable, relationships have become a commodity. A relationship can be equally disposable.

It’s true, a relationship is a lot of work. It’s labor of love. You choose to be in, or out. Just like friendships. You don’t just enjoy the high after rounds of a drinking spree, or the burps and giggles after feasting on party food. You have to find reasons to keep in touch. You have to give time, and a bit of yourself when a friend is need. You decide to commit through hell or high waters. Period.

After 18 years it amazes me that I am still friends with them. In that span of time I have met a lot of people, and have become friends with new faces. But sad to say, some or even many of those ties did not outlast the strong 18 years I have with Chingkee, Sandy and Bentley.

We’ve had our share of disagreements, we have our own preferences and personalities. But in spite of the differences, we’ve managed the friendship. We hardly even see one another! Maybe 3 or 5 times in a year? But we don’t let distance be a reason for distancing ourselves from each other. Whenever we have a get-together we can always go back to where we last took off. We don’t demand, nor impose. We respect each other’s life and lifestyle. We respect our individual journeys yet still walk together as friends on this road called life.

Over lunch I couldn’t help but stare at my friends. They still talk the same, sound the same, even look the same.

Or maybe because I see the person beyond the physical. My spirit connects to their soul. I just know we “connect”. I can’t even explain.

How time flies, 18 years… it hasn’t changed our friendship in the midst of our changed lives. I treasure them. I smile to myself.

And I know, we can still count on each other as we keep counting the years ahead of us.

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