Alex Maskara
Thoughts, Stories, Imagination of Filipino American Alex Maskara
Welcome
~
I am now beginning to do the things I used to do before, which is one of the reasons I chose to come back and stay in my old hometown. I wanted a place where I could easily recreate the routine I had established in my home in the United States, only this time surrounded by family and familiar surroundings. What a relief it is to be back in my birthplace, living once again in my parents’ home. It is safe and quiet, and it provides pretty much everything I need. Most importantly, I know I am more than welcome here. I like to think that my parents built this house partly as a gift to me, and that my brother watched over it all these years until the day I finally returned and decided to stay.
The house I left behind in Lake Worth, Florida, already seems strangely remote in my mind. For a long time, it appeared to be the perfect place for me to retire comfortably in the United States. I had everything I needed there, and I had built a life around it. But the two people I expected to remain close to me—the people I believed I could rely on for companionship and a sense of security—both died. My other friends lived in cities far from me, and I increasingly found myself surrounded by neighbors with whom communication was difficult because many spoke little English and my Spanish was limited at best. I had hoped to build the next stage of my retirement around the one person I still had nearby, Jim, but he said goodbye far too early and far too unexpectedly. After that, going home began to make more and more sense.
And now I am here.
Yesterday, I started finding my way around the same old barrio again. In the mornings, I can walk to the market just a few steps from the house and see what is available. I discovered varieties of seafood I rarely bought in the United States. They were available there, of course, but usually frozen and often expensive. Here I saw squid and several kinds of fish besides the familiar bangus and tilapia. Before long, I might travel to nearby Guagua and explore the markets there, where I may find even more varieties of fresh fish, perhaps practically straight from the catch, along with all the vegetables I could possibly want. I really don't need rice with every meal. Today, however, I remembered that I still had an extra piece of bangus sitting in the air fryer from yesterday, so there was no reason to buy anything new. Besides, my sister-in-law cooks for me and makes sure I have food whether I ask for it or not. Fortunately, she is a very good cook.
I am also beginning to run into my old childhood playmates around town. We are all in our 60s now, perhaps a little less certain of our footing than we once were. We still try to joke with one another the way we used to, but our humor is now tempered by the seriousness that comes with age. I suppose that is simply how life goes. We are the same people, yet obviously we are not.
Little by little, I am also learning how to function here again. There is at least one bank near the marketplace with an ATM, and I needed to replenish my supply of pesos. The transaction went smoothly. Back at the house, I started setting up my mini PC and asked my nephew to buy a few inexpensive accessories for me. The refrigerator I ordered also arrived, and I asked my brother to take care of it because afternoons have become my sleeping time while I recover from jet lag. I slept well that afternoon and woke up around six in the evening. I made myself some coffee, ate dinner, and did a little cleaning afterward.
I have also been trying to organize my belongings. Right now, medicines, cameras, coffee, creams, and all sorts of little things have taken over my dining table. It isn't exactly pleasant to look at. I ordered shirts, shorts, and a multi-tiered rolling cart to organize everything. I swept the floor, picked up my garbage, and made a mental note that I needed proper trash bags. These are small, ordinary tasks, but perhaps that is exactly what settling into a new life—or an old life made new again—is about.
I started using Lazada yesterday to order some of the things I needed. Today, I thought about ordering dental floss and trash bags until I noticed that one item cost around 20 pesos while the shipping charge was 58 pesos. I know we are talking about Philippine pesos and very little money in U.S. dollars, but the principle still bothers me. It seems ridiculous to pay almost three times the price of an item just to have it shipped. So today may be a good time to explore the stores around the barrio and find out what I can buy locally instead of automatically ordering everything online. Part of returning home is learning again where things are and how people here go about their everyday lives.
I also have to pay closer attention to what I eat. I have already become a little careless with breakfast, particularly with all the bread around here, much of which seems sweeter than what I am used to. I am more disciplined with lunch and dinner and continue taking my medications as prescribed. Still, I need to be mindful of my diet and not assume that medication can compensate for careless eating. I hope my blood sugar remains under control when I eventually have my next blood work done.
My sleep remains inconsistent, although, to be fair, it was inconsistent even before this trip. Jet lag has simply added another layer to it. For now, I am allowing my body to adjust instead of fighting it too much. Eventually, I expect my days and nights to settle into a more normal rhythm.
Perhaps one of the best things about this homecoming is that I am beginning to feel more focused on storytelling again. I don't think I want to spend too much time making reels about my new surroundings. Plenty of people already vlog about life in this town. My own cousin posts videos about the place several times a day, and I have no desire to join that crowd. I would rather continue focusing on the things that have always interested me: gardening, growing plants, reading, writing, and telling stories.
Gardening, unfortunately, will have to wait. The weather has been terrible, with constant rain and some flooding. I don't even want to visit the small lot that has been set aside for me and that I eventually hope to turn into my garden. I caught a quick glimpse of it when I passed the gate a couple of days ago, and it certainly wasn't inviting. Parts of it were flooded, and people had dumped junk there. Once the Florida property is finally closed and everything is financially settled, one of my first projects will be to clean that lot thoroughly and bring in fill, sand, and good soil where needed. That probably won't happen until October. By then, I hope the weather will be more cooperative and I can finally begin transforming that neglected piece of land into something beautiful.
Another priority is maintaining my English, both through writing and reading. English isn't widely spoken in the barrio, and after spending most of my adult life using it every day, I don't want to lose my fluency simply through lack of use. Writing regularly in English will help. Reading English books will help. Speaking it whenever I have the opportunity will help as well. I can even use ChatGPT's voice feature to have English conversations during my free time. In a strange way, technology can help me maintain a part of the American life I brought home with me.
So this is it. I am finally back where everything started.
There is something almost circular about it. I left this place many years ago and built an entirely different life thousands of miles away. I worked, traveled, made friends, bought homes, built routines, and imagined growing old there. Now I have returned to the same barrio, the same family home, and some of the same streets I walked as a child. Yet I am returning as a completely different person, carrying decades of experiences that the young man who left here could never have imagined.
Sadly, the circumstances that brought me home were shaped by tragedy and loss. I don't necessarily believe that the deaths of my sister and Jim were God's way of sending me a message. Sometimes terrible things simply happen. The people closest to me were not healthy enough to remain here as long as I had hoped, and painful as that reality is, I have to accept the loss of them. Their deaths changed the direction of my life, but that doesn't mean they happened in order to change it.
I miss them, and I probably always will. But I am still here, and life continues to ask something of me.
Perhaps my task now is simply to live this remaining chapter well—to settle into this old house, rediscover the barrio, build my garden, take care of myself, read, write, tell my stories, and appreciate the family that surrounds me. And somewhere in my faith remains the hope that I will see the people I lost again someday. If that day comes, I will have quite a story to tell them about everything that happened after we parted ways.
2026-09-10 02:10:35
blog
In a world filled with uncertainty, perhaps the one certainty I continue to hold on to is the presence of God—and humanity’s desire to reach Him in so many different ways. I try to reach God through meditation, prayer, and the creative work that has always been part of my life. I believe that somewhere in every human heart is an imprint of God, something we instinctively try to reach, understand, imitate, and express. Perhaps that is partly where art comes from. Whether through painting, music, writing, or any other form of creativity, human beings keep trying to reproduce something beautiful, meaningful, and greater than themselves. We cannot seem to help ourselves. Maybe that desire has been planted deep within our spiritual DNA.
I have stopped posting frequently on social media lately. The primary reason is simple: I am busy. The secondary reason is that I don't have much I want to share publicly right now. There is very little art in posting simply for the sake of posting, and I have never wanted to become someone who feels obligated to produce content just to remain visible. At the same time, I don't want my sudden silence or disappearance to stir unnecessary curiosity or speculation among people who became accustomed to seeing whatever little piece of creativity I happened to share. Even when the posting stops, however, the artistic impulse remains.
To satisfy that craving for beauty—and perhaps my longing for something resembling God's perfection—I return to the art form I know best: writing. In a world that seems increasingly superficial, I still find myself wanting to explore the deeper chambers of the human heart and spirit. I don't do this out of responsibility or obligation. I do it because I love it. There is also a certain urgency behind it because so much contemporary media seems to be moving toward the surface of things. Creativity is increasingly measured by numbers: views, followers, likes, shares, engagement. Those numbers may measure attention, but they do not necessarily measure value.
Of course, this is not entirely new. The same distinctions existed in the past. Newspapers had serious journalism alongside sensationalism and tabloid junk. Literature has always offered everything from profound works of art to material with little lasting value. Radio and television were no different. There has always been thoughtful art and shallow entertainment, beauty and ugliness, substance and noise. Every generation simply encounters these choices through different forms of media.
Now we live in the computer age, and naturally it offers more choices than perhaps any generation before us could have imagined. As for me, creativity remains my way of reaching toward the beauty of God. I write stories that try, however imperfectly, to approach that threshold. I find the process itself beautiful.
That has become especially important to me now.
I am still recovering from the loss of Jim, and his death has set in motion enormous changes in my life. I am selling my home because I no longer believe I can—or even want to—manage everything here by myself. At the moment, I feel more comfortable hiding somewhat from the world of social media. I don't want to invite people's curiosity or speculation, and even worse, I don't want to present myself publicly as the grieving friend, adding performative layers of sadness simply to attract sympathy, attention, or drama. I have no desire for that.
But privately, I continue to create.
I sit down and write through my anguish, grief, confusion, and occasional moments of peace. I have recovered considerably from the initial shock, but grief still arrives unexpectedly. Sometimes it happens when I enter places where Jim used to linger—his room, the back door, the backyard. Sometimes I find myself thinking about Rocky and grieving that old loss as well. Sadness has a strange way of finding familiar doorways into the mind. It comes, stays for a while, and eventually leaves again.
So I write and meditate. They help stabilize me and keep sorrow from consuming every corner of my mind. But for now, I write without thinking about an audience other than God. Someday I may post some of these writings on my websites, where my identity doesn't matter and where I can write whatever I want—whatever drama, imagination, memory, grief, or emotion happens to come out. I can call the stories fiction, and most of them are. I don't give them too much importance, nor do I burden them with expectations. They are simply acts of creative self-expression, and right now, that is enough.
Eventually, I will probably return to my usual social media activities. But there is no hurry.
---
Meanwhile, ordinary life continues to demand my attention.
I finally got hold of Jim's ex-wife, Alicia, so she can retrieve the box of her belongings that I took out of storage. She was understandably shocked by the news of Jim's death. I remember that initial shock myself, but this time I managed to stay focused on the practical matter at hand. Interestingly, as I tell more people about his passing, I feel as though I am also distributing some of the grief. There is a strange comfort in that. The sorrow is no longer something I am carrying entirely by myself.
I have also secured the important documents I will need for traveling abroad. Thankfully, I didn't lose my Social Security card this time. My passport is valid until 2034, so I have plenty of time to use it for whatever travels may come during the next several years.
I attempted to restore my old ASUS laptop to its factory settings, but so far every attempt has failed. My next step is simply to remove my personal apps and data and leave the computer for Carl so he can use it. At this point, I don't need to make every little thing perfect. I simply need to keep moving forward.
My next major steps involve buying my plane ticket and selling my car to CarMax, with the proceeds going toward whatever balance remains on the loan. Getting rid of the car alone should eliminate roughly $600 from my monthly expenses between the payment and insurance. I have already eliminated another $200 by closing my storage unit. Eventually the utilities will disappear, grocery expenses will decline, the Internet service will go, and many of the subscriptions I accumulated over the years will also be canceled.
Apparently, I need to unsubscribe from many of these services individually. Another tedious little project—but also another source of savings.
Piece by piece, I am dismantling the machinery of my American household.
I believe everything will eventually work out for my good, even if the road getting there is painful. There is one complicated truth I have gradually allowed myself to acknowledge. After my sister died last year, I could have left then, but I didn't. One reason was Jim. I worried about what would happen to him if I left. His income was small, the cost of living in Florida had become extremely high, and I knew how precarious his life could be. I feared that if I simply walked away and something terrible happened to him afterward, I would have struggled with the guilt.
For six years, he had a stable place to live. Whatever his shortcomings and habits—cigarettes, beer, weed, and his sometimes questionable financial choices—he had a home. He had stability. He had someone around who cared what happened to him. I take some comfort in knowing that.
The deaths of my sister and Jim have also left me with another emotion that is difficult to admit because it can sound terrible when separated from its meaning: relief.
I am not relieved that they died. I would never wish that. I am relieved that I no longer have to carry the fear of what might happen to them if I were the one who disappeared first.
For years, part of me worried about my sister's future and how she would manage if her health deteriorated and I was no longer available. I worried about Jim for similar reasons. His circumstances were different, but the underlying fear was the same: *What happens to them if I am gone?* That question quietly followed me as I grew older.
Now that burden is gone, though I would gladly have carried it longer if it meant they were still here.
Back home, my siblings will also grow older. Their health may decline someday, and I may experience grief again. But they have families and much stronger support systems around them. I can participate in their lives without feeling that their survival depends on me. Perhaps that is one of the reasons returning home increasingly feels like the natural next chapter.
My prayer now is simply that the Lord will hasten the steps that remain. I pray that the house sells quickly and that the weather cooperates when it is finally time for me to fly home. Beyond that, I am trying not to demand too many answers at once.
In the meantime, I am taking care of myself. I am sleeping well. I am eating regularly and taking my medications on schedule. I am trying not to overdo the physical work. At first, I was intimidated by the sheer amount of junk, belongings, boxes, and accumulated pieces of life that had to be sorted, donated, thrown away, shipped, or given to someone. Yet somehow, most of it is already gone.
Today is another sorting day. The balikbayan box is ready to be shipped. Alicia will pick up her box. Carl will take the things from the house that he decided to keep. I have also adjusted my investment portfolio into a less aggressive mix because this is not the time in my life when I want unnecessary financial risk. With the significant reduction in my monthly expenses once I am back home, I may not need to touch my 401(k)s for a very long time. Hopefully, I can simply let those funds sit while I live a quieter and less expensive life.
That thought gives me some peace.
The next major practical step is selling the car and applying whatever I receive toward paying it off. Then comes the plane ticket. I may choose a flexible ticket because September can bring unpredictable storms, and with the house sale still unfolding, flexibility may be worth paying for.
The timing of everything now requires some thought. My realtor may begin showing the house to prospective buyers next week, which means the remaining belongings need to go soon—the bed, television, books, and whatever else is still here. I may keep only my bedding and a rubber mat so I have somewhere to sleep once the house is nearly empty. It will be strange, perhaps, to sleep on the floor of a house that once contained an entire life. But it will only be temporary.
Soon I should also begin disconnecting services one by one. Every cancellation will mean another expense disappearing, another obligation ending, another small cord connecting me to this house being cut.
Maybe that is what this period of my life is really about: not simply getting rid of possessions, but gradually releasing the things that once anchored me here.
I am grieving, certainly. But I am also moving.
There are moments when I look around and realize how much has disappeared in such a short period of time—people, plans, possessions, assumptions about my future. Yet beneath all of that uncertainty, I return to the thought with which I began: God remains.
And so I continue to reach for Him in the way I know best.
I meditate. I pray. I write.
Then I pack another box.
2026-08-25 14:16:21
blog
The Return to the old Barrio
I am now beginning to do the things I used to do before, which is one of the reasons I chose to come back and stay in my old hometown. I wanted a place where I could easily recreate the routine I had established in my home in the United States, only this time surrounded by family and familiar surroundings. What a relief it is to be back in my birthplace, living once again in my parents’ home. It is safe and quiet, and it provides pretty much everything I need. Most importantly, I know I am more than welcome here. I like to think that my parents built this house partly as a gift to me, and that my brother watched over it all these years until the day I finally returned and decided to stay.
The house I left behind in Lake Worth, Florida, already seems strangely remote in my mind. For a long time, it appeared to be the perfect place for me to retire comfortably in the United States. I had everything I needed there, and I had built a life around it. But the two people I expected to remain close to me—the people I believed I could rely on for companionship and a sense of security—both died. My other friends lived in cities far from me, and I increasingly found myself surrounded by neighbors with whom communication was difficult because many spoke little English and my Spanish was limited at best. I had hoped to build the next stage of my retirement around the one person I still had nearby, Jim, but he said goodbye far too early and far too unexpectedly. After that, going home began to make more and more sense.
And now I am here.
Yesterday, I started finding my way around the same old barrio again. In the mornings, I can walk to the market just a few steps from the house and see what is available. I discovered varieties of seafood I rarely bought in the United States. They were available there, of course, but usually frozen and often expensive. Here I saw squid and several kinds of fish besides the familiar bangus and tilapia. Before long, I might travel to nearby Guagua and explore the markets there, where I may find even more varieties of fresh fish, perhaps practically straight from the catch, along with all the vegetables I could possibly want. I really don't need rice with every meal. Today, however, I remembered that I still had an extra piece of bangus sitting in the air fryer from yesterday, so there was no reason to buy anything new. Besides, my sister-in-law cooks for me and makes sure I have food whether I ask for it or not. Fortunately, she is a very good cook.
I am also beginning to run into my old childhood playmates around town. We are all in our 60s now, perhaps a little less certain of our footing than we once were. We still try to joke with one another the way we used to, but our humor is now tempered by the seriousness that comes with age. I suppose that is simply how life goes. We are the same people, yet obviously we are not.
Little by little, I am also learning how to function here again. There is at least one bank near the marketplace with an ATM, and I needed to replenish my supply of pesos. The transaction went smoothly. Back at the house, I started setting up my mini PC and asked my nephew to buy a few inexpensive accessories for me. The refrigerator I ordered also arrived, and I asked my brother to take care of it because afternoons have become my sleeping time while I recover from jet lag. I slept well that afternoon and woke up around six in the evening. I made myself some coffee, ate dinner, and did a little cleaning afterward.
I have also been trying to organize my belongings. Right now, medicines, cameras, coffee, creams, and all sorts of little things have taken over my dining table. It isn't exactly pleasant to look at. I ordered shirts, shorts, and a multi-tiered rolling cart to organize everything. I swept the floor, picked up my garbage, and made a mental note that I needed proper trash bags. These are small, ordinary tasks, but perhaps that is exactly what settling into a new life—or an old life made new again—is about.
I started using Lazada yesterday to order some of the things I needed. Today, I thought about ordering dental floss and trash bags until I noticed that one item cost around 20 pesos while the shipping charge was 58 pesos. I know we are talking about Philippine pesos and very little money in U.S. dollars, but the principle still bothers me. It seems ridiculous to pay almost three times the price of an item just to have it shipped. So today may be a good time to explore the stores around the barrio and find out what I can buy locally instead of automatically ordering everything online. Part of returning home is learning again where things are and how people here go about their everyday lives.
I also have to pay closer attention to what I eat. I have already become a little careless with breakfast, particularly with all the bread around here, much of which seems sweeter than what I am used to. I am more disciplined with lunch and dinner and continue taking my medications as prescribed. Still, I need to be mindful of my diet and not assume that medication can compensate for careless eating. I hope my blood sugar remains under control when I eventually have my next blood work done.
My sleep remains inconsistent, although, to be fair, it was inconsistent even before this trip. Jet lag has simply added another layer to it. For now, I am allowing my body to adjust instead of fighting it too much. Eventually, I expect my days and nights to settle into a more normal rhythm.
Perhaps one of the best things about this homecoming is that I am beginning to feel more focused on storytelling again. I don't think I want to spend too much time making reels about my new surroundings. Plenty of people already vlog about life in this town. My own cousin posts videos about the place several times a day, and I have no desire to join that crowd. I would rather continue focusing on the things that have always interested me: gardening, growing plants, reading, writing, and telling stories.
Gardening, unfortunately, will have to wait. The weather has been terrible, with constant rain and some flooding. I don't even want to visit the small lot that has been set aside for me and that I eventually hope to turn into my garden. I caught a quick glimpse of it when I passed the gate a couple of days ago, and it certainly wasn't inviting. Parts of it were flooded, and people had dumped junk there. Once the Florida property is finally closed and everything is financially settled, one of my first projects will be to clean that lot thoroughly and bring in fill, sand, and good soil where needed. That probably won't happen until October. By then, I hope the weather will be more cooperative and I can finally begin transforming that neglected piece of land into something beautiful.
Another priority is maintaining my English, both through writing and reading. English isn't widely spoken in the barrio, and after spending most of my adult life using it every day, I don't want to lose my fluency simply through lack of use. Writing regularly in English will help. Reading English books will help. Speaking it whenever I have the opportunity will help as well. I can even use ChatGPT's voice feature to have English conversations during my free time. In a strange way, technology can help me maintain a part of the American life I brought home with me.
So this is it. I am finally back where everything started.
There is something almost circular about it. I left this place many years ago and built an entirely different life thousands of miles away. I worked, traveled, made friends, bought homes, built routines, and imagined growing old there. Now I have returned to the same barrio, the same family home, and some of the same streets I walked as a child. Yet I am returning as a completely different person, carrying decades of experiences that the young man who left here could never have imagined.
Sadly, the circumstances that brought me home were shaped by tragedy and loss. I don't necessarily believe that the deaths of my sister and Jim were God's way of sending me a message. Sometimes terrible things simply happen. The people closest to me were not healthy enough to remain here as long as I had hoped, and painful as that reality is, I have to accept the loss of them. Their deaths changed the direction of my life, but that doesn't mean they happened in order to change it.
I miss them, and I probably always will. But I am still here, and life continues to ask something of me.
Perhaps my task now is simply to live this remaining chapter well—to settle into this old house, rediscover the barrio, build my garden, take care of myself, read, write, tell my stories, and appreciate the family that surrounds me. And somewhere in my faith remains the hope that I will see the people I lost again someday. If that day comes, I will have quite a story to tell them about everything that happened after we parted ways.
2026-09-10 02:10:35
blog
God and Art
In a world filled with uncertainty, perhaps the one certainty I continue to hold on to is the presence of God—and humanity’s desire to reach Him in so many different ways. I try to reach God through meditation, prayer, and the creative work that has always been part of my life. I believe that somewhere in every human heart is an imprint of God, something we instinctively try to reach, understand, imitate, and express. Perhaps that is partly where art comes from. Whether through painting, music, writing, or any other form of creativity, human beings keep trying to reproduce something beautiful, meaningful, and greater than themselves. We cannot seem to help ourselves. Maybe that desire has been planted deep within our spiritual DNA.
I have stopped posting frequently on social media lately. The primary reason is simple: I am busy. The secondary reason is that I don't have much I want to share publicly right now. There is very little art in posting simply for the sake of posting, and I have never wanted to become someone who feels obligated to produce content just to remain visible. At the same time, I don't want my sudden silence or disappearance to stir unnecessary curiosity or speculation among people who became accustomed to seeing whatever little piece of creativity I happened to share. Even when the posting stops, however, the artistic impulse remains.
To satisfy that craving for beauty—and perhaps my longing for something resembling God's perfection—I return to the art form I know best: writing. In a world that seems increasingly superficial, I still find myself wanting to explore the deeper chambers of the human heart and spirit. I don't do this out of responsibility or obligation. I do it because I love it. There is also a certain urgency behind it because so much contemporary media seems to be moving toward the surface of things. Creativity is increasingly measured by numbers: views, followers, likes, shares, engagement. Those numbers may measure attention, but they do not necessarily measure value.
Of course, this is not entirely new. The same distinctions existed in the past. Newspapers had serious journalism alongside sensationalism and tabloid junk. Literature has always offered everything from profound works of art to material with little lasting value. Radio and television were no different. There has always been thoughtful art and shallow entertainment, beauty and ugliness, substance and noise. Every generation simply encounters these choices through different forms of media.
Now we live in the computer age, and naturally it offers more choices than perhaps any generation before us could have imagined. As for me, creativity remains my way of reaching toward the beauty of God. I write stories that try, however imperfectly, to approach that threshold. I find the process itself beautiful.
That has become especially important to me now.
I am still recovering from the loss of Jim, and his death has set in motion enormous changes in my life. I am selling my home because I no longer believe I can—or even want to—manage everything here by myself. At the moment, I feel more comfortable hiding somewhat from the world of social media. I don't want to invite people's curiosity or speculation, and even worse, I don't want to present myself publicly as the grieving friend, adding performative layers of sadness simply to attract sympathy, attention, or drama. I have no desire for that.
But privately, I continue to create.
I sit down and write through my anguish, grief, confusion, and occasional moments of peace. I have recovered considerably from the initial shock, but grief still arrives unexpectedly. Sometimes it happens when I enter places where Jim used to linger—his room, the back door, the backyard. Sometimes I find myself thinking about Rocky and grieving that old loss as well. Sadness has a strange way of finding familiar doorways into the mind. It comes, stays for a while, and eventually leaves again.
So I write and meditate. They help stabilize me and keep sorrow from consuming every corner of my mind. But for now, I write without thinking about an audience other than God. Someday I may post some of these writings on my websites, where my identity doesn't matter and where I can write whatever I want—whatever drama, imagination, memory, grief, or emotion happens to come out. I can call the stories fiction, and most of them are. I don't give them too much importance, nor do I burden them with expectations. They are simply acts of creative self-expression, and right now, that is enough.
Eventually, I will probably return to my usual social media activities. But there is no hurry.
---
Meanwhile, ordinary life continues to demand my attention.
I finally got hold of Jim's ex-wife, Alicia, so she can retrieve the box of her belongings that I took out of storage. She was understandably shocked by the news of Jim's death. I remember that initial shock myself, but this time I managed to stay focused on the practical matter at hand. Interestingly, as I tell more people about his passing, I feel as though I am also distributing some of the grief. There is a strange comfort in that. The sorrow is no longer something I am carrying entirely by myself.
I have also secured the important documents I will need for traveling abroad. Thankfully, I didn't lose my Social Security card this time. My passport is valid until 2034, so I have plenty of time to use it for whatever travels may come during the next several years.
I attempted to restore my old ASUS laptop to its factory settings, but so far every attempt has failed. My next step is simply to remove my personal apps and data and leave the computer for Carl so he can use it. At this point, I don't need to make every little thing perfect. I simply need to keep moving forward.
My next major steps involve buying my plane ticket and selling my car to CarMax, with the proceeds going toward whatever balance remains on the loan. Getting rid of the car alone should eliminate roughly $600 from my monthly expenses between the payment and insurance. I have already eliminated another $200 by closing my storage unit. Eventually the utilities will disappear, grocery expenses will decline, the Internet service will go, and many of the subscriptions I accumulated over the years will also be canceled.
Apparently, I need to unsubscribe from many of these services individually. Another tedious little project—but also another source of savings.
Piece by piece, I am dismantling the machinery of my American household.
I believe everything will eventually work out for my good, even if the road getting there is painful. There is one complicated truth I have gradually allowed myself to acknowledge. After my sister died last year, I could have left then, but I didn't. One reason was Jim. I worried about what would happen to him if I left. His income was small, the cost of living in Florida had become extremely high, and I knew how precarious his life could be. I feared that if I simply walked away and something terrible happened to him afterward, I would have struggled with the guilt.
For six years, he had a stable place to live. Whatever his shortcomings and habits—cigarettes, beer, weed, and his sometimes questionable financial choices—he had a home. He had stability. He had someone around who cared what happened to him. I take some comfort in knowing that.
The deaths of my sister and Jim have also left me with another emotion that is difficult to admit because it can sound terrible when separated from its meaning: relief.
I am not relieved that they died. I would never wish that. I am relieved that I no longer have to carry the fear of what might happen to them if I were the one who disappeared first.
For years, part of me worried about my sister's future and how she would manage if her health deteriorated and I was no longer available. I worried about Jim for similar reasons. His circumstances were different, but the underlying fear was the same: *What happens to them if I am gone?* That question quietly followed me as I grew older.
Now that burden is gone, though I would gladly have carried it longer if it meant they were still here.
Back home, my siblings will also grow older. Their health may decline someday, and I may experience grief again. But they have families and much stronger support systems around them. I can participate in their lives without feeling that their survival depends on me. Perhaps that is one of the reasons returning home increasingly feels like the natural next chapter.
My prayer now is simply that the Lord will hasten the steps that remain. I pray that the house sells quickly and that the weather cooperates when it is finally time for me to fly home. Beyond that, I am trying not to demand too many answers at once.
In the meantime, I am taking care of myself. I am sleeping well. I am eating regularly and taking my medications on schedule. I am trying not to overdo the physical work. At first, I was intimidated by the sheer amount of junk, belongings, boxes, and accumulated pieces of life that had to be sorted, donated, thrown away, shipped, or given to someone. Yet somehow, most of it is already gone.
Today is another sorting day. The balikbayan box is ready to be shipped. Alicia will pick up her box. Carl will take the things from the house that he decided to keep. I have also adjusted my investment portfolio into a less aggressive mix because this is not the time in my life when I want unnecessary financial risk. With the significant reduction in my monthly expenses once I am back home, I may not need to touch my 401(k)s for a very long time. Hopefully, I can simply let those funds sit while I live a quieter and less expensive life.
That thought gives me some peace.
The next major practical step is selling the car and applying whatever I receive toward paying it off. Then comes the plane ticket. I may choose a flexible ticket because September can bring unpredictable storms, and with the house sale still unfolding, flexibility may be worth paying for.
The timing of everything now requires some thought. My realtor may begin showing the house to prospective buyers next week, which means the remaining belongings need to go soon—the bed, television, books, and whatever else is still here. I may keep only my bedding and a rubber mat so I have somewhere to sleep once the house is nearly empty. It will be strange, perhaps, to sleep on the floor of a house that once contained an entire life. But it will only be temporary.
Soon I should also begin disconnecting services one by one. Every cancellation will mean another expense disappearing, another obligation ending, another small cord connecting me to this house being cut.
Maybe that is what this period of my life is really about: not simply getting rid of possessions, but gradually releasing the things that once anchored me here.
I am grieving, certainly. But I am also moving.
There are moments when I look around and realize how much has disappeared in such a short period of time—people, plans, possessions, assumptions about my future. Yet beneath all of that uncertainty, I return to the thought with which I began: God remains.
And so I continue to reach for Him in the way I know best.
I meditate. I pray. I write.
Then I pack another box.
2026-08-25 14:16:21
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