Someone Else's Angel

Twenty years ago I lost a friend.

I remember how we used to spend afternoon weekdays doing our homework together, with lengthy discussions on the recent episodes of Carebears, Smurfs, Daimos, and Transformers. Weekends would mean lots of time outside: playing patintero, tumbang-preso, taguan-base, Chinese garter, and monkey-monkey with the other kids in our vicinity. Whenever we feel lazy going outside, we would play scrabble, snakes & ladders, doctor-doctor, pick-up-sticks, and yes, even jackstone.

June 30, 1987…no classes due to the feast day of our Lady of the Rose, our town’s -secondary patroness. We were playing taguan-base when he was asked to run an errand for his mom. Being a good son that he was, he obediently did as he was told. He profusely bade goodbye and promised that he’ll come back and he’ll bring pandesal for our merienda.

But he never came back.

Later on, it was my dad who told me about the bad news. My friend was hit by a speeding vehicle along Ayala Avenue, near Insular Life building. He died on the spot.

That was how I lost him.

That was the very first time that I experienced grieving over the death of a friend. I never saw him as he lay lifeless on his coffin because I wanted to remember him as someone who’s full of life and candid as ever. It took me years before I finally had the courage to watch the movie My Girl (part 1) because it reminded so much of what happened and what we used to be.

Two decades after that fateful day, I now ask myself: “What’s it like if he’s still alive today?” “How would he look like?” “Are we still the best of friends?” Probably, he could’ve enjoyed watching the Transformers movie as much as I did (he was an avid fan of the cartoon TV series, you know).

He could have been 32 years old now. But I know God had better plans for him.

Now I know why good people die young: to be someone else’s angel.