Blue is the color of the breeze

My father is a funny man. Just when I am totally convinced that the breeze — like all gaseous elements — is colorless, I’m dumbfounded to know that it is color blue. Yes, blue is the color of the breeze. At least in the language of my old man.

One Sunday morning, I went up to him as he took his morning ritual of whiling away time on his hammock under the himbaba-o tree in our backyard. 

“Toto (Son),” he told me with excitement in his voice, “Yung pamangkin mong si Nikko may ‘breeze,’ kulay asul (Your nephew Nikko has ‘breeze,’ it’s color blue.”

“Breeze?” I asked, rather confused.

“Oo (Yes). Breeze.”

In the middle of my bewilderment came Nikko.

“Tingnan mo ngipin nya, may breeze (Look at his teeth, they have breeze),” my father said.

Nikko smiled. He was wearing blue breeze, err...braces.

* * *

My mother is equally funny. On a lazy Sunday morning, she turns to her transistor radio, tune in to DwKY station. By 10:30 a.m., she hushes at everyone in the house to be quiet. If she can even pacify the plying jeepneys in front of our home, she surely will just so her listening pleasure at that moment in time will not be disturbed.

Then she starts to melt upon hearing the first three notes of her favorite song — No Other Love by Jo Stafford. She has a CD of it but she prefers listening to the song on her transistor radio, every Sunday, around 10 a.m.

In our terrace fronting our little garden with a huge narra tree, my mother is a picture of bliss as she sings with Jo Stafford — her eyes are a valley of love, there’s a spring running in her gait, her spirit is renewed. She transforms every time she hears the song.

A peculiar smile is written all over my father’s face as he listens to the duet between my mother and Jo Stafford. He adds the extra melody to the music as he pokes the tip of his wooden cane against the white tiles of our terrace. Nanay seems to be in trance, enjoying the centerstage, basking in the moment, living the day and loving it.

A great measure of delight is still impeccably displayed on her disposition even after the song is over in less than three minutes. Yes, that’s all it takes to give her that momentary happiness. But her grandchildren, her audience, are unrelenting. They still want to make her day, so they sing the song a capella:

No other love can warm my heart/ Now that I’ve known the comfort of your arms/ No other love./ Oh the sweet contentment that I find with you/ Every Time/ Every Time./No other lips could want you more/ For I was born to glory in your kiss./ Forever yours/ I was blessed with love to love you/ Till the stars burn out above you/ Till the moon is but a silver shell/ No other love,/ Let no other love/ Know the wonder of your spell.

Before they get to finish singing the song, their Lolo and Lola have already taken the dance floor. No Other Love is my parents’ song.

* * *

My youngest brother Rod, 33, a public school teacher, is also funny. One Saturday, he arrived at my place in Makati at quarter past the hour of four in the morning. He barely slept, he said. But there was no trace of sleeplessness on his mien. Only palpable excitement. It was my brother’s first time to ride a plane. We were about to travel together. Our destination: El Nido Resort-Lagen in Palawan.

It was a chartered flight that we took to El Nido. When we were airborne, smoke filled our small plane.

“Langit na ba ito, ateng (Is this heaven already)?” he asked me as he made the Sign of the Cross.

A few more minutes and there was slight turbulence in the air.

“Ay ano ba yan? Nakalapag na ba tayo sa lupa, ateng? (What’s that? Have we landed already)?” he asked again.

“Relax. Malapit na tayong mag-land (We will land in a while),” I said.

We finally landed. After a 40-minute boat ride, we reached Lagen.

“Ito ang langit (This is heaven),” Rod said as he enjoyed his welcome drink amidst the blue ocean and massive rock formation in the resort. He was too thirsty he asked for another glass of that refreshing cold concoction. Then he regained his rosy complexion that earlier was paper white.

It was his first real vacation in 33 years. It was our first vacation together. It was his first plane ride, too.

Before our vacation ended, he asked: “Where are you bringing me next?”

I didn’t give a concrete answer. But this early, he’s practicing to do a poi dance. It is his crazy dream to upstage those fire dancers in Boracay.

(For your new beginnings, please e-mail me at bumbaki@yahoo.com or my.new.beginnings@gmail.com. Have a blessed Sunday!)