She never left him
No parent should be made to bury his or her own child. I swear to God.
(Cue in Denethor and Boromir/Faramir from Lord of the Rings. Fans would understand.) Now I know how Mama Mary prolly felt like. Sorry for the suddenly literary/religious take.
I was at Sacred Heart Parish in Kamuning last night doing legwork for my feature story for J111, which Dr. Encanto insists must be a "sob story." K. Since my classmate stole my idea on the late Dr. Van Heugten, I decided to pursue Quincy Reyes, who just died last Jan. 3.
I was extremely ill-prepared for the avalanche of emotions that came over me as I sat in the small, warm chapel lit by funeral lamp fixtures, listening to Mrs. Reyes narrate the story of her son's death, prolly for the nth time.
I know I was there for the assignment, and nothing more (even if Quincy and I covered the same UAAP beat last season; I prolly bumped into him a couple of times in he Araneta Coliseum dugout), I couldn't help but feel really, really bad every time Mrs. Reyes would break down in tears mid-narrative (which was like, 50% of the time). She was talking to three of us (two of Quincy's other friends), so every time she would start crying there would be an awkward pause. Since the other two friends were as stone-silent as statues, I would always be the one to "re-start" the conversation with a sympathetic "it's okay" (sorry I don't know how to handle these things) followed with an inquiry or two, just to keep her talking a bit.
It must've been the warm atmosphere in the chapel, or the centralized aircon not working properly, but soon after I felt my eyes filling up with warm tears and I could no longer steady my hand to properly hold the audio recorder long enough. I know I was there for the assignment alone, but dammit I couldn't control my emotions. I thought that after seeing the deaths of three of my grandparents before I turned 12 (all within a span of months) and countless more elderly kin, I could already handle it.
Turns out seeing a person almost my age and his grieving mother was too much for me. I'm typically emotional I guess--barely two weeks into the year and I've already cried twice.
I had to be in Ortigas Center that evening for a birthday dinner, so I bid goodbye to Mrs. Reyes and gave her a quick hug--enough, I hope, to convey my sincerest sympathies to her.
I left in a daze. I didn't even say a proper goodbye to Ronin who was standing outside with his colleagues, nor did I care that Norman Black was walking up the street to also view Quincy's wake.
As I was walking down Timog Avenue (it was rather cold evening), I was thinking really hard. What should I do now? What can I do? if I died, would I receive the same amount of heartfelt outpouring as Quincy did? How would my family and friends handle it?
It had been a difficult evening for me, and I don't think it was even a top-rate interview. Now comes the harder part--writing the story. I hope this doesn't kill me.
(Cue in Denethor and Boromir/Faramir from Lord of the Rings. Fans would understand.) Now I know how Mama Mary prolly felt like. Sorry for the suddenly literary/religious take.
I was at Sacred Heart Parish in Kamuning last night doing legwork for my feature story for J111, which Dr. Encanto insists must be a "sob story." K. Since my classmate stole my idea on the late Dr. Van Heugten, I decided to pursue Quincy Reyes, who just died last Jan. 3.
I was extremely ill-prepared for the avalanche of emotions that came over me as I sat in the small, warm chapel lit by funeral lamp fixtures, listening to Mrs. Reyes narrate the story of her son's death, prolly for the nth time.
I know I was there for the assignment, and nothing more (even if Quincy and I covered the same UAAP beat last season; I prolly bumped into him a couple of times in he Araneta Coliseum dugout), I couldn't help but feel really, really bad every time Mrs. Reyes would break down in tears mid-narrative (which was like, 50% of the time). She was talking to three of us (two of Quincy's other friends), so every time she would start crying there would be an awkward pause. Since the other two friends were as stone-silent as statues, I would always be the one to "re-start" the conversation with a sympathetic "it's okay" (sorry I don't know how to handle these things) followed with an inquiry or two, just to keep her talking a bit.
It must've been the warm atmosphere in the chapel, or the centralized aircon not working properly, but soon after I felt my eyes filling up with warm tears and I could no longer steady my hand to properly hold the audio recorder long enough. I know I was there for the assignment alone, but dammit I couldn't control my emotions. I thought that after seeing the deaths of three of my grandparents before I turned 12 (all within a span of months) and countless more elderly kin, I could already handle it.
Turns out seeing a person almost my age and his grieving mother was too much for me. I'm typically emotional I guess--barely two weeks into the year and I've already cried twice.
I had to be in Ortigas Center that evening for a birthday dinner, so I bid goodbye to Mrs. Reyes and gave her a quick hug--enough, I hope, to convey my sincerest sympathies to her.
I left in a daze. I didn't even say a proper goodbye to Ronin who was standing outside with his colleagues, nor did I care that Norman Black was walking up the street to also view Quincy's wake.
As I was walking down Timog Avenue (it was rather cold evening), I was thinking really hard. What should I do now? What can I do? if I died, would I receive the same amount of heartfelt outpouring as Quincy did? How would my family and friends handle it?
It had been a difficult evening for me, and I don't think it was even a top-rate interview. Now comes the harder part--writing the story. I hope this doesn't kill me.