The Jerk is a Ghost

The Jerk: Twenty Four

Twenty Four,

Fifteen minutes bago mag ten ng gabi ay nasa harap na ako ng bahay at pinagmamasdan ang paalis na sasakyan ni Micko. Hindi ko namalayan kung paano kami lumabas ng Hospital o kung ano ang sinabi niya sa sasakyan habang pauwi na kami. My mind feels like a blank paper. Naririnig ko ang mga sinasabi ni Micko pero hindi ko magawang intindihin.

Nanatili ako sa balcony hangang sa mawala ang sasakyan niya sa paningin ko. He even insisted for me to go inside first bago siya umalis pero sinabi ko na magpapahangin muna ako.

Bumuntong hininga ako habang nasa balcony. Naririnig ko ang tunog ng TV mula sa loob ng bahay at ang boses ni Dad at ng kapatid kong si Danny na masayang nag uusap. Narinig ko ang boses ni Mama na papunta sa pintuan para pagbuksan ako.

“Hey, sweetie. Bakit nandyan ka pa?” bati niya nang buksan ang pintuan at nakita na nasa labas parin ako.

“Gusto ko lang magpahangin, Ma.” sagot ko.

Nagtaka si Mama. “Did something happen?” she asked with concern. “May ginagawa bang hindi maganda si Micko?”

“No.” mabilis kong sagot. “The dinner was great. It’s just that—” Natigilan ako. “May gumugulo lang sa akin, Ma.”

“Like what?” she asked.

Hindi agad ako nakasagot. I wanted to tell her what I discovered. I wanted to ask her why— of all people why Ashton? I wanted to tell her everything because I know my Mom could make me feel better.

“Ma, is it possible for a person not to fear death?"

Natigilan si Mama sa naging tanong ko.

“I mean how come they find it all so easy to leave everything behind?”

Tumabi si Mama sa akin at pareho naming pinagmasdan ang madilim at deserted na kalye.

“Honey,” she started. “Every person you see has their own personal struggles. You wouldn’t know how broken a person is until you look closely.”

Bumuntong hininga siya.

“Some people think that to die is a courageous act. But honestly it takes a lot more courage to live, to face the struggle, to keep moving forward.”

“So they are not afraid of death, they are afraid of living?” I concluded.

She smiled lightly at me.

“But— But they seem to have everything. Anything they wanted, anyone, anytime. Isn’t it unfair?”

“Honey, when you look at a person you are either looking at a projected image or a window.” My Mom said. “Often times we are looking at the person as a projected image.”

“We know the person, we see him every day, we know what he is like, so there is an image in our head of what we perceived him to be. Beautiful, broken, perfect, talented, average, those kinds of things— and whenever you see that person, you are reflecting the image in your head like a projector. What you think he is, you think he is.”

There is a silence afterwards, as if Mom is letting the words sink in.

“But then, what’s in your head is not always the real thing. Sometimes it is just part of that thing, a surface, a cover or a window. You are looking at a closed window. And when you learn that a person is not a projected image but a window— you can take a peek inside, or you can open the shutters or cover if the person lets you, and you will see that there is more to that person than the glass or shutters that covers the entire room— his entire identity.”