Cold

I went to Mt. Carmel for Che’s wake. The place was packed with Che’s family and friends, testament to how much love there had been in her life. Kevin was there, and I walked over to him and squeezed his shoulder in condolence. I didn’t get to talk to him, and I don’t think I needed to. My friend Pia and I took a deep breath, and holding on to each other for strength, went up front to have one last look at Che. My co-teacher Shirley, who had been to the wake last night, was right; Che didn’t look anything like the girl we knew and loved. It seemed absurdly easy to pretend that it wasn’t really her lying there, but there was a finality in that heartrending sight that made it painfully clear she was gone. Pia said my hands were like ice. I felt no fear, just an excruciating awareness of chill reality.

Seeing so many familiar faces (mostly MIS batchmates from Ateneo), Pia and I talked about how awful it was that it had to take a tragedy like this to reunite friends. It’s depressing to think that people our age are already so consumed by matters of consequence that we neglect to tend our roses. Like I told a student recently, our youth blinds us to our mortality, and deludes us into believing we have all the time in the world to do everything. If this isn’t a bucket of cold water thrown in our faces, I don’t know what is.

Postscript: Thank you to all my dear students who have taken time out to express their sympathy and concern the past 2 days. I plead guilty to having been one of these teachers who complain of students’ insensitivity, but students like you make me glad to be proven wrong. My appreciation goes out to you guys.