Baked from the scorching glare of the sun, I kept on brushing the wall, trying to imitate the anime character enhanced by photoshop, only to create an ensaymada instead of a face of a sage.
I never had the hands of Picasso.
The artists of our publication joined the Mural Painting Competition at the Queen City Memorial Gardens sponsored by an online game.
And as the Ate of our group, I advised the kiddos in my Mother Theresa’s voice, it’s alright if we won’t win, at least we will see our works as our boarded jeep passed by. I know the feeling will be priceless.
“Makapanghambug jud ka nga, kang Ate ng ensaymada! I mean, sage!” Tim, our Art Editor mocked my obra maestra. We guffawed.
While resting at the portal of the cemetery, after eating our provided lunch, a funeral car paved the entrance with Bamboo’s Mr. Clay as its music. It awakened the whole cemetery!
“Cool!” Francis, one of the artists exclaimed.
I smiled and thought of my own funeral. I’ll have Breaking Benjamin’s as my funeral music.
“Bata pa na Te. Tagna-on pa nako,” Tim prognosticated, referring to the deceased.
“More or less, associated sa frat iyang pagkamatay.” A guy from other school, suspected upon seeing the endless lads who accompanied the rite.
Indeed, the stories of fraternity killings never failed to cover the pages of our news daily and local television. And they multiplied as grandfather clock kept on waggling its tails.
It was such a sad note, that young people maneuvered their lives into the risky road of fraternity. I dared not to question their reasons, rather understood them since rashness belongs to youth; prudence to old age, as what Marcus Tullius Cicero said.
Rashness, indeed, is the key in opening the door of afterlife. How sad.
The thought of death reminded me that November is just a walking distance from here. And as we painted the walls of the Queen City Memorial, families and relatives also coated the home of their dead love ones inside.
And as arrogant as I am, I remembered Mama, who had always had a hard time in persuading me to march with them towards the cemetery where the tombs of my grandparents, sister (Susanna), and all the deceased clan, both from Mama and Papa are planted.
I’m also a Juan Tamad.
I had to finish my ensaymada, I mean, my mural before 29th of October so that I can go to Tuburan, my childhood home, to exercise my weak rights to suffrage. And I’m might be arrogant, but I do honor the dead people on their very special day.
But I do hope their ghosts will not be appearing during the barangay election, but in the meantime, I have to bake my ensaymada with the angry stare of the sun.
