To the dearly departed

We’ve been through some things together… with trunks of memories still to come… we found things to do in stormy weather… long may you run. – Neil Young

As I made my way through the crowded chapel doors to take one last look at my friend, a sense of urgency came to me. I didn’t want this to be the final time I saw her. I didn’t want it to be the end. But as I pressed my hand gently on the glass coffin, and found her, still innocent and beautiful as ever, I knew that it was.

I glanced around the room and studied the blubbering faces that made up much of what was there. It wasn’t so much her death but the way it occurred that affected me more: a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. She was 21. I tried my best to shed a tear, and simply couldn’t. All I felt at the time was shock, and deep frustration.

My memory is now a bit hazy but I met Karla Antoniette Escoto three years ago at a summer theater workshop. It’s, um, difficult to know exactly where to begin, so first let me tell you why I was there.

A couple of months before I left Manila for a year to be in film school, I decided to prepare for it by enrolling in a short course in musical theater at this place in Ortigas Ave. And while not exactly thrilled to be there, I figured I’d give it a go before calling it quits.

It was the third day of class, and people were doing some exercises to loosen up. I myself pretended to do jumping jacks when Karla entered the room and every eye suddenly turned toward her. When admiring a girl, most guys I know start with the head and work their way down. I start with the feet and work up.

She wore white-laced sneakers and a tight fitting leotard that started high enough above the knees to reveal the most perfectly shaped legs. As my eyes continued their upward sweep they paused to take in her narrow waist and slim figure. But it was the oval face that I had found enchanting, her slightly pouting lips and the most soulful eyes I’ve ever seen, crowned with a head of long, black hair with highlights that literally sparkled.

I’d be doing Karla injustice, however, if I merely focused on her physical attributes. For her character — not to mention her singing voice — was the most captivating of all. Shy, well-mannered and stoic in nature, she had the makings of a modern-day princess — without the pretentiousness of a royal façade.

While I cannot pretend that we’ve been the best of buddies over the summer, there was always a feeling of closeness, an unspoken bond of friendship wherein we understood and cared for each other without having to utter a word. We, of course, had more than just smiles and pleasantries, for by the end of the summer I felt I had gotten to know more about my friend than time had allowed.

We went our separate ways after that. And as was natural, I did miss Karla, and often thought about her during my first few weeks of being away. But as I had started a new life in Cebu, any memories I had of the girl somewhat faded over time. Although we occasionally still kept in touch with each other, and although we tried hard to sound pretty excited whenever we talked, deep down we both knew that whatever closeness we once had over that summer was gone. Eventually, the letters ceased and the phone calls stopped — at least until several months ago.

If there was one thing for me to be thankful about the typhoon Ondoy, it was the fact that it somehow brought my friend back into my life again. I had written about my horrid experience about the storm and out of the blue, Karla rang me up to ask if I was all right. I was never better, I assured her and we met up for lunch at this mall in Quezon City.

It’s funny how you keep an image of people long lost in your head and they look exactly the same when you do see them again, isn’t it? It was true with Karla. I marveled at how pretty she looked and she blushed, which reminded me of her shyness. I guess it never really dawned on me how much I had missed her until I saw her that day. I had already trained myself to remember her as just another fleeting acquaintance, but as we talked and reminisced, all those feelings of before found their way into my heart again.

Once more, we became close, perhaps even closer than ever. It was as if we were making up for lost time. Apart from her singing, she had always wanted to be a writer so I lent her the book Love In The Time Of Cholera to inspire her. To my dreadful amusement, she found it “rather boring” and said that the book she lent me, Toltec: The Four Agreements was much better. I didn’t want to offend her so I said, “Hey, you were right!” — even though the thing made me fall asleep faster than a bottle of whiskey.

In any case, I talked to her last month and she still sounded bright and bubbly. But I detected a tone of sadness in her voice, an uneasiness of sort I could never figure out. Whatever it was, she hid it well enough to make me think of it as nothing more than a bad hair day. I invited her to a movie and she said okay “as long as you buy the popcorn.” It was the last time we spoke.

As I moved away from the glass coffin and moved around the chapel to offer my final condolences to her family, Karla’s mother came up to me and whispered how much Karla adored my friendship. I told her she never knew how much I adored hers. I still do, in fact.

I left the room as quietly as I entered it and felt a sudden pang of grief I had never felt in a long time. In my mind, I hoped my friend, whatever her reasons for doing what she did, was in a better place. She will remain, simply in my mind as the most plaintive and poignant, of a line of dreams. Sleep well, Karla.

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email: estabillo.matthew@gmail.com