Alex Maskara
Thoughts, Stories, Imagination of Filipino American Alex Maskara
Welcome
~
I woke up today uncertain why I failed to meditate, as was my usual habit—unless I had worked on my blog. But no, I believe the first thing I did this morning was to step out into my backyard to check on my plants. I sat there quietly on a calm Sunday morning, savoring whatever breeze the day brought.
I spent several hours watering the plants, digging out the thick roots of stubborn snake plants, and breathing in the earthy scent of damp soil and mold. I probably went outside around seven and returned near ten, not only from fatigue but also because of a light dizziness—perhaps vertigo, congestion, or maybe the mold.
Lately, I’ve been spending more time outdoors. Despite reports of clean air and minimal allergens, I continue to suffer from a nonstop postnasal drip that never seems to end. Again, perhaps the mold.
When I came back inside, I used my Flonase inhaler, which cleared my sinuses almost instantly. For the rest of the afternoon, I felt better, especially since I didn’t move around much. I took my regular nap. Earlier, Jeff had stopped by, but I was too tired to talk. I knew he probably just wanted a soda and a few dollars for a meal.
Later, I received the plant nettings I had ordered and immediately used them to protect my new seedlings. I also made a vow to reduce my posting on Facebook; I’ve grown tired of flooding my page with repetitive updates. Even I am weary of seeing my own routines. There’s no reason to post daily just to assure my family that I’m fine—two or three times a week will do.
That vow applies only to Facebook, though. I can still share my mundane posts on Instagram, YouTube, and TikTok to satisfy that lingering hunger to share. But deep down, my true desire is to return to writing—the reason I began spending time online in the first place. I feel the Holy Spirit guiding me back to it. All those other distractions—scrolling, editing, surfing—are nothing but noise. If I am to fulfill God’s plan for me, it has something to do with writing.
Remembering Alan and Robert
Yesterday, I learned about the death of Alan Ilio back in 2020. He was one of the first people I reached out to for guidance when I started writing online, as early as 1996. He died at the same age I am now—sixty-three. Apparently, he was found at his computer desk.
In his later years, Alan taught high school biology. He was known in Chicago’s LGBTQ+ community as the partner of Robert Dorfman, one of the pioneering couples who married before same-sex marriage was officially legalized, due to Robert’s failing heart. Robert died a few months after their wedding.
Alan lived a few more years, though he had been on dialysis and was probably ill for some time. Despite his accomplishments—academic, artistic, and digital—it took me five years to learn of his passing.
I met them once, during a visit they made to South Beach. The memory is hazy, but I still recall Robert’s gentle, fatherly face. Alan, from what I remember, was vibrant and youthful then, quite different from the photo I later saw after his death—older, heavier, and marked by time. I often wonder how he lived after Robert’s passing. Did he find another companion? Did he move on? Perhaps not. Illness and practicality may have kept him in the U.S., where he could access the medical care he needed.
I realize my speculations reveal more about me than about him. I’m certain the same will happen when I’m gone—some will never hear of my passing until years later.
Faces from the Past
I remember learning, years late, that my old friend Philip Gilapo had died of liver cancer. I saw his emaciated photo only after searching for him online. He had been the last person to visit me in my Fort Lauderdale condo in 2003, before I moved to West Palm Beach. He came with his partner, but I hardly paid attention—I was distraught at the time because a stranger I had trusted had taken off with my new truck. Later, I learned it wasn’t intentional; the man, Nelson, had been found asleep beside the truck, high on drugs, far from where I lived.
Back then, I was consumed by my love for David, who thankfully handled my emotions with grace. Still, he never offered comfort when I needed it most. Neither did my so-called best friend, Mark, who practically lived in my condo but vanished when I needed him. My sister was the one who came to comfort me.
I never heard from Mark again. David later fell ill with several medical conditions, and my little dog Rocky passed away from cancer.
When I look back at all the people I’ve met, loved, and fought with, I realize that what I once admired in them was often an illusion. Their seemingly carefree and secure lives were fragile—smoke and mirrors. In time, we all fall through the illusion of stability.
Fort Lauderdale Years
Though I often describe myself as solitary, I once welcomed people easily into my life. I wasn’t exactly social—just open, perhaps too open. I didn’t filter anyone who wanted to get close, and that carelessness led to many mistakes, especially in Fort Lauderdale.
After leaving my difficult life in Tennessee and North Carolina, I moved to Oakland Park, hoping to break free from years of deprivation. Living close to downtown, I wanted to enjoy the lust and youthful passion common to men—gay or otherwise—driven by their hormones. That was where I met people like Eric, Mark, and BJ.
Eric, from what I’ve heard, has suffered from mental health issues and hasn’t practiced nursing since 2018. Mark, as I’ve mentioned, was a friend until friendship became inconvenient for him. He, like David, was only around for the good times.
I was often the host; my condo became the group’s default meeting place. I even gave Mark a set of keys. He never offered the same to me—but that was fine; I never wanted to visit him in Miami anyway. I let people do whatever they wished with my space and privacy, thinking it might cure my loneliness.
Eventually, I introduced Mark to some friends from New York, including an old classmate, John. Mark quickly claimed them as his best friends and dropped me, except when he wanted access to my condo. I was a friend in good times—but easily discarded when things grew difficult.
All of this is past now, buried in memory, but sometimes I revisit it to find meaning in my existence, to remind myself how far I’ve come.
People and Lessons
Through those social years, I met many others—some kind, some deceitful. A few pretended to be friends, only to use me as a point of comparison or validation. Others respected me at first, then treated me poorly later, as if their goal all along was to feel superior.
I see now that I used them, too—to prove I wasn’t antisocial, that I could fit in when necessary. But once I sensed insincerity, I distanced myself. I could never tolerate hypocrisy for long.
I remember how Mark would parade his sociability whenever we went to Miami. I often watched him from a corner as he mingled, sometimes belittling me to feel bigger. During one trip to New York, a Puerto Rican man showed interest in me, and I could see Mark’s discomfort. Another time, he tried to humiliate me in front of David by “teaching” me how to act socially. David simply squeezed my hand under the table, silently telling me to ignore him.
Today, they are all far from my world. Occasionally I recall their faces, but I’ve stopped searching for them online. My life is open enough on social media; if they wish, they can still see me there. But I no longer care to see them.
Writing, Solitude, and Faith
This is why I now turn to writing as my form of expression. Social media captures moments, but writing captures meaning. Even if I fail to recall every detail, I find greater satisfaction in expressing myself through words.
I remember visiting Alan and Robert at their hotel in South Beach. The night was dark; I recall the silhouette of a church and the old building’s wooden railings as I climbed the stairs. Alan unpacked while Robert stood beside him, quiet and fatherly. Their story reminded me of a magazine piece I once read about their meeting in Chicago—a May-December love story that defied time.
When I think of all the people who passed through my life, I see now that I was never meant to be extroverted. I thought moving to Lauderdale would change me, but the Lord guided me back to solitude.
Aging Gracefully
It has taken decades, much prayer, and countless mistakes to find this peace. At sixty-three, with diabetes, hypertension, high cholesterol, and the lingering effects of all these, I’m still here—still writing, still grateful.
Last year, my oldest brother and younger sister both passed away within weeks of each other. Yet I feel the Lord’s steady hand guiding me.
For years, I lived with my sister and her husband. I worked tirelessly, supporting the family through illness, education, and hardship. When I sold my townhouse to them and moved to a condo in Lake Worth, I thought I’d start anew. I even went to night school for an IT degree.
That period became my last attempt to build a social life—this time under the guise of charity. I opened my doors to men displaced by addiction and homelessness, convincing myself I was helping them. But it was really a way to fill my loneliness. Most took advantage; only one, Tom, eventually straightened his life and now lives with me as a tenant and friend.
It took a pandemic to end that cycle—to release me from the chaos I had enabled.
Now, looking back, I understand myself more clearly—my weaknesses, strengths, and the meaning behind my solitude. I am, for better or worse, built to live alone. Yet I am never truly alone. The Lord stands beside me.
Legacy and Grace
When I reflect on my life—the decades of work, the friendships that faded, the family I supported—I see persistence. I was never extraordinary, but I was faithful.
I helped my parents and siblings. I offered kindness to strangers, even when it cost me. I gave love freely, even when it wasn’t returned. I kept my promise to God to write, to bear witness to the life He gave me.
I don’t care if no one reads what I write. I write as the psalmist wrote his songs—for God to read.
There were countless obstacles along the way: temptation, hardship, loneliness. Yet God always lifted me from the pit, allowing me to fulfill my duty—to help, to survive, to tell my story.
Now, in these quieter years, I find greater joy in writing than in scrolling through social media. Writing brings meaning, a sense of peace, and communion with the Holy Spirit. It is, I think, my true calling—my way of thanking God for every fall and every rise that brought me here.
2025-10-14 10:34:36
popong
There was once the quiet call of a desperate man—a faint echo in the solitude of a small apartment in Florida. Edwin Samaniego sat by the window, the late afternoon sun slipping through the blinds, drawing golden stripes across the worn carpet. In the distance, he could hear children laughing somewhere in the neighborhood, yet inside his room, silence pressed heavy against his chest.
“How,” he asked softly, “could a man be abandoned and left for dead?”
He looked at his reflection in the glass. “Is God praised and celebrated by the ghosts?”
At sixty-three, Edwin felt confined—trapped not by walls, but by time and distance. The digital world had become his only audience.
Edwin often thought about how humanity had changed. Once, people gathered in plazas, chatted over fences, or met by chance in markets. Now, everyone sat motionless, heads bent toward glowing screens. Conversations had been replaced by “likes,” laughter by emojis, and warmth by pixels. The irony was not lost on him: humanity had never been more connected—and yet, more alone.
Every morning, Edwin logged into his social media accounts. It was a habit, perhaps even a ritual. A few friends—old neighbors from Pampanga, former coworkers, and cousins—would react to his posts. He smiled at the familiar names. But beyond that circle, he saw a sea of strangers, each curating their happiness, each projecting perfection.
He had seen the danger of it—the illusion of belonging. People built kingdoms online, where they were admired and adored, but when the screens went dark, they found themselves alone.
Some, like Justin Bieber, had turned that illusion into reality. Others, like the founder of the Huffington Post, had built empires from their keyboards. But for most, including Edwin, the virtual world was a fleeting comfort, a shadow of real connection.
Edwin had no desire to chase fame. “What would I do with ten thousand followers?” he’d ask his niece, Maricel, during their video calls. She worked as a nurse in Sydney and often worried about his health.
“I’d rather have ten real friends than ten thousand strangers,” he’d add, smiling faintly.
His posts were simple—photos of sunsets, coffee mugs, or the orchids blooming on his balcony. Sometimes he shared an old memory, a song, or a quote from one of his favorite books. “It’s my way of saying I’m still here,” he explained once. “A thumbs-up to my family ten thousand miles away.”
Three years earlier, Edwin had returned to the Philippines. Manila greeted him like an old friend who had aged badly—still familiar, but weary and crowded. He wandered through the streets of his youth: the university where he studied, the small eateries where he once spent long afternoons with classmates, the busy underpasses filled with vendors shouting prices over the roar of jeepneys.
But this time, his knees betrayed him. Each step up an elevated train platform felt like climbing a mountain. One Christmas Eve, at a Jollibee in Luneta, he found himself stuck at the bottom of a staircase, unable to climb to the counter. A young crew member noticed his struggle and brought his meal down to him.
“Salamat, iho,” Edwin said, his voice thick with gratitude—and shame. There was a time he could run those stairs without breaking a sweat. Now, pain reminded him that the body has its limits, no matter how youthful the mind remains.
That night, in his modest hotel room, he promised himself that next time he returned home, he would buy a car—no matter how cheap. Freedom, he thought, was worth any price.
In Pampanga, he stayed mostly inside their old family house, surrounded by the faint scent of wood and dust. The house creaked in the evenings, like it was whispering memories. His nieces and nephews would drop by when work allowed, offering rides or meals. He cherished their company but never wanted to impose.
Back in Florida, life was simpler. He could drive to the park, walk to the grocery store, or watch the sunset by the beach. Yet, the ache of homesickness lingered like a low hum.
He dreamed often: of driving through the streets of San Fernando, visiting the markets of Lubao and Guagua, buying fresh vegetables and fish to cook his favorite meals. He could almost smell the tang of vinegar from adobo simmering on the stove.
“I’ll cook again,” he would tell himself. “Just like when I was young.”
Sometimes, he imagined gathering his old classmates—those still alive—and taking them out for a night of laughter and music. Maybe they’d visit a quiet bar in Angeles or a seaside restaurant in Zambales. He imagined himself driving, the radio playing softly, and his heart light again.
Yet, reality sat beside him like an old, patient friend. His sister was gone, his health was fragile, and his savings modest. He knew the floodwaters that often hit Pampanga, the brownouts, the bureaucracy that made it hard for retirees like him to use their Medicare abroad.
Still, hope flickered. In his dreams, Edwin wasn’t the man with aching knees. He was the young runner who could chase buses, laugh with friends, and climb stairs two at a time.
When he awoke, he would sit by the window, open his laptop, and post something simple:
A photo of the morning sky.
A line about gratitude.
A quiet message that said: I’m still here.
And though the world might scroll past it, someone, somewhere—perhaps a cousin in Pampanga or a niece in Sydney—would smile, knowing that Edwin Samaniego was okay.
2025-10-11 03:25:14
popong
Nostalgia
I woke up today uncertain why I failed to meditate, as was my usual habit—unless I had worked on my blog. But no, I believe the first thing I did this morning was to step out into my backyard to check on my plants. I sat there quietly on a calm Sunday morning, savoring whatever breeze the day brought.
I spent several hours watering the plants, digging out the thick roots of stubborn snake plants, and breathing in the earthy scent of damp soil and mold. I probably went outside around seven and returned near ten, not only from fatigue but also because of a light dizziness—perhaps vertigo, congestion, or maybe the mold.
Lately, I’ve been spending more time outdoors. Despite reports of clean air and minimal allergens, I continue to suffer from a nonstop postnasal drip that never seems to end. Again, perhaps the mold.
When I came back inside, I used my Flonase inhaler, which cleared my sinuses almost instantly. For the rest of the afternoon, I felt better, especially since I didn’t move around much. I took my regular nap. Earlier, Jeff had stopped by, but I was too tired to talk. I knew he probably just wanted a soda and a few dollars for a meal.
Later, I received the plant nettings I had ordered and immediately used them to protect my new seedlings. I also made a vow to reduce my posting on Facebook; I’ve grown tired of flooding my page with repetitive updates. Even I am weary of seeing my own routines. There’s no reason to post daily just to assure my family that I’m fine—two or three times a week will do.
That vow applies only to Facebook, though. I can still share my mundane posts on Instagram, YouTube, and TikTok to satisfy that lingering hunger to share. But deep down, my true desire is to return to writing—the reason I began spending time online in the first place. I feel the Holy Spirit guiding me back to it. All those other distractions—scrolling, editing, surfing—are nothing but noise. If I am to fulfill God’s plan for me, it has something to do with writing.
Remembering Alan and Robert
Yesterday, I learned about the death of Alan Ilio back in 2020. He was one of the first people I reached out to for guidance when I started writing online, as early as 1996. He died at the same age I am now—sixty-three. Apparently, he was found at his computer desk.
In his later years, Alan taught high school biology. He was known in Chicago’s LGBTQ+ community as the partner of Robert Dorfman, one of the pioneering couples who married before same-sex marriage was officially legalized, due to Robert’s failing heart. Robert died a few months after their wedding.
Alan lived a few more years, though he had been on dialysis and was probably ill for some time. Despite his accomplishments—academic, artistic, and digital—it took me five years to learn of his passing.
I met them once, during a visit they made to South Beach. The memory is hazy, but I still recall Robert’s gentle, fatherly face. Alan, from what I remember, was vibrant and youthful then, quite different from the photo I later saw after his death—older, heavier, and marked by time. I often wonder how he lived after Robert’s passing. Did he find another companion? Did he move on? Perhaps not. Illness and practicality may have kept him in the U.S., where he could access the medical care he needed.
I realize my speculations reveal more about me than about him. I’m certain the same will happen when I’m gone—some will never hear of my passing until years later.
Faces from the Past
I remember learning, years late, that my old friend Philip Gilapo had died of liver cancer. I saw his emaciated photo only after searching for him online. He had been the last person to visit me in my Fort Lauderdale condo in 2003, before I moved to West Palm Beach. He came with his partner, but I hardly paid attention—I was distraught at the time because a stranger I had trusted had taken off with my new truck. Later, I learned it wasn’t intentional; the man, Nelson, had been found asleep beside the truck, high on drugs, far from where I lived.
Back then, I was consumed by my love for David, who thankfully handled my emotions with grace. Still, he never offered comfort when I needed it most. Neither did my so-called best friend, Mark, who practically lived in my condo but vanished when I needed him. My sister was the one who came to comfort me.
I never heard from Mark again. David later fell ill with several medical conditions, and my little dog Rocky passed away from cancer.
When I look back at all the people I’ve met, loved, and fought with, I realize that what I once admired in them was often an illusion. Their seemingly carefree and secure lives were fragile—smoke and mirrors. In time, we all fall through the illusion of stability.
Fort Lauderdale Years
Though I often describe myself as solitary, I once welcomed people easily into my life. I wasn’t exactly social—just open, perhaps too open. I didn’t filter anyone who wanted to get close, and that carelessness led to many mistakes, especially in Fort Lauderdale.
After leaving my difficult life in Tennessee and North Carolina, I moved to Oakland Park, hoping to break free from years of deprivation. Living close to downtown, I wanted to enjoy the lust and youthful passion common to men—gay or otherwise—driven by their hormones. That was where I met people like Eric, Mark, and BJ.
Eric, from what I’ve heard, has suffered from mental health issues and hasn’t practiced nursing since 2018. Mark, as I’ve mentioned, was a friend until friendship became inconvenient for him. He, like David, was only around for the good times.
I was often the host; my condo became the group’s default meeting place. I even gave Mark a set of keys. He never offered the same to me—but that was fine; I never wanted to visit him in Miami anyway. I let people do whatever they wished with my space and privacy, thinking it might cure my loneliness.
Eventually, I introduced Mark to some friends from New York, including an old classmate, John. Mark quickly claimed them as his best friends and dropped me, except when he wanted access to my condo. I was a friend in good times—but easily discarded when things grew difficult.
All of this is past now, buried in memory, but sometimes I revisit it to find meaning in my existence, to remind myself how far I’ve come.
People and Lessons
Through those social years, I met many others—some kind, some deceitful. A few pretended to be friends, only to use me as a point of comparison or validation. Others respected me at first, then treated me poorly later, as if their goal all along was to feel superior.
I see now that I used them, too—to prove I wasn’t antisocial, that I could fit in when necessary. But once I sensed insincerity, I distanced myself. I could never tolerate hypocrisy for long.
I remember how Mark would parade his sociability whenever we went to Miami. I often watched him from a corner as he mingled, sometimes belittling me to feel bigger. During one trip to New York, a Puerto Rican man showed interest in me, and I could see Mark’s discomfort. Another time, he tried to humiliate me in front of David by “teaching” me how to act socially. David simply squeezed my hand under the table, silently telling me to ignore him.
Today, they are all far from my world. Occasionally I recall their faces, but I’ve stopped searching for them online. My life is open enough on social media; if they wish, they can still see me there. But I no longer care to see them.
Writing, Solitude, and Faith
This is why I now turn to writing as my form of expression. Social media captures moments, but writing captures meaning. Even if I fail to recall every detail, I find greater satisfaction in expressing myself through words.
I remember visiting Alan and Robert at their hotel in South Beach. The night was dark; I recall the silhouette of a church and the old building’s wooden railings as I climbed the stairs. Alan unpacked while Robert stood beside him, quiet and fatherly. Their story reminded me of a magazine piece I once read about their meeting in Chicago—a May-December love story that defied time.
When I think of all the people who passed through my life, I see now that I was never meant to be extroverted. I thought moving to Lauderdale would change me, but the Lord guided me back to solitude.
Aging Gracefully
It has taken decades, much prayer, and countless mistakes to find this peace. At sixty-three, with diabetes, hypertension, high cholesterol, and the lingering effects of all these, I’m still here—still writing, still grateful.
Last year, my oldest brother and younger sister both passed away within weeks of each other. Yet I feel the Lord’s steady hand guiding me.
For years, I lived with my sister and her husband. I worked tirelessly, supporting the family through illness, education, and hardship. When I sold my townhouse to them and moved to a condo in Lake Worth, I thought I’d start anew. I even went to night school for an IT degree.
That period became my last attempt to build a social life—this time under the guise of charity. I opened my doors to men displaced by addiction and homelessness, convincing myself I was helping them. But it was really a way to fill my loneliness. Most took advantage; only one, Tom, eventually straightened his life and now lives with me as a tenant and friend.
It took a pandemic to end that cycle—to release me from the chaos I had enabled.
Now, looking back, I understand myself more clearly—my weaknesses, strengths, and the meaning behind my solitude. I am, for better or worse, built to live alone. Yet I am never truly alone. The Lord stands beside me.
Legacy and Grace
When I reflect on my life—the decades of work, the friendships that faded, the family I supported—I see persistence. I was never extraordinary, but I was faithful.
I helped my parents and siblings. I offered kindness to strangers, even when it cost me. I gave love freely, even when it wasn’t returned. I kept my promise to God to write, to bear witness to the life He gave me.
I don’t care if no one reads what I write. I write as the psalmist wrote his songs—for God to read.
There were countless obstacles along the way: temptation, hardship, loneliness. Yet God always lifted me from the pit, allowing me to fulfill my duty—to help, to survive, to tell my story.
Now, in these quieter years, I find greater joy in writing than in scrolling through social media. Writing brings meaning, a sense of peace, and communion with the Holy Spirit. It is, I think, my true calling—my way of thanking God for every fall and every rise that brought me here.
2025-10-14 10:34:36
popong
Edwin Samaniego
There was once the quiet call of a desperate man—a faint echo in the solitude of a small apartment in Florida. Edwin Samaniego sat by the window, the late afternoon sun slipping through the blinds, drawing golden stripes across the worn carpet. In the distance, he could hear children laughing somewhere in the neighborhood, yet inside his room, silence pressed heavy against his chest.
“How,” he asked softly, “could a man be abandoned and left for dead?”
He looked at his reflection in the glass. “Is God praised and celebrated by the ghosts?”
At sixty-three, Edwin felt confined—trapped not by walls, but by time and distance. The digital world had become his only audience.
Edwin often thought about how humanity had changed. Once, people gathered in plazas, chatted over fences, or met by chance in markets. Now, everyone sat motionless, heads bent toward glowing screens. Conversations had been replaced by “likes,” laughter by emojis, and warmth by pixels. The irony was not lost on him: humanity had never been more connected—and yet, more alone.
Every morning, Edwin logged into his social media accounts. It was a habit, perhaps even a ritual. A few friends—old neighbors from Pampanga, former coworkers, and cousins—would react to his posts. He smiled at the familiar names. But beyond that circle, he saw a sea of strangers, each curating their happiness, each projecting perfection.
He had seen the danger of it—the illusion of belonging. People built kingdoms online, where they were admired and adored, but when the screens went dark, they found themselves alone.
Some, like Justin Bieber, had turned that illusion into reality. Others, like the founder of the Huffington Post, had built empires from their keyboards. But for most, including Edwin, the virtual world was a fleeting comfort, a shadow of real connection.
Edwin had no desire to chase fame. “What would I do with ten thousand followers?” he’d ask his niece, Maricel, during their video calls. She worked as a nurse in Sydney and often worried about his health.
“I’d rather have ten real friends than ten thousand strangers,” he’d add, smiling faintly.
His posts were simple—photos of sunsets, coffee mugs, or the orchids blooming on his balcony. Sometimes he shared an old memory, a song, or a quote from one of his favorite books. “It’s my way of saying I’m still here,” he explained once. “A thumbs-up to my family ten thousand miles away.”
Three years earlier, Edwin had returned to the Philippines. Manila greeted him like an old friend who had aged badly—still familiar, but weary and crowded. He wandered through the streets of his youth: the university where he studied, the small eateries where he once spent long afternoons with classmates, the busy underpasses filled with vendors shouting prices over the roar of jeepneys.
But this time, his knees betrayed him. Each step up an elevated train platform felt like climbing a mountain. One Christmas Eve, at a Jollibee in Luneta, he found himself stuck at the bottom of a staircase, unable to climb to the counter. A young crew member noticed his struggle and brought his meal down to him.
“Salamat, iho,” Edwin said, his voice thick with gratitude—and shame. There was a time he could run those stairs without breaking a sweat. Now, pain reminded him that the body has its limits, no matter how youthful the mind remains.
That night, in his modest hotel room, he promised himself that next time he returned home, he would buy a car—no matter how cheap. Freedom, he thought, was worth any price.
In Pampanga, he stayed mostly inside their old family house, surrounded by the faint scent of wood and dust. The house creaked in the evenings, like it was whispering memories. His nieces and nephews would drop by when work allowed, offering rides or meals. He cherished their company but never wanted to impose.
Back in Florida, life was simpler. He could drive to the park, walk to the grocery store, or watch the sunset by the beach. Yet, the ache of homesickness lingered like a low hum.
He dreamed often: of driving through the streets of San Fernando, visiting the markets of Lubao and Guagua, buying fresh vegetables and fish to cook his favorite meals. He could almost smell the tang of vinegar from adobo simmering on the stove.
“I’ll cook again,” he would tell himself. “Just like when I was young.”
Sometimes, he imagined gathering his old classmates—those still alive—and taking them out for a night of laughter and music. Maybe they’d visit a quiet bar in Angeles or a seaside restaurant in Zambales. He imagined himself driving, the radio playing softly, and his heart light again.
Yet, reality sat beside him like an old, patient friend. His sister was gone, his health was fragile, and his savings modest. He knew the floodwaters that often hit Pampanga, the brownouts, the bureaucracy that made it hard for retirees like him to use their Medicare abroad.
Still, hope flickered. In his dreams, Edwin wasn’t the man with aching knees. He was the young runner who could chase buses, laugh with friends, and climb stairs two at a time.
When he awoke, he would sit by the window, open his laptop, and post something simple:
A photo of the morning sky.
A line about gratitude.
A quiet message that said: I’m still here.
And though the world might scroll past it, someone, somewhere—perhaps a cousin in Pampanga or a niece in Sydney—would smile, knowing that Edwin Samaniego was okay.
2025-10-11 03:25:14
popong