SUMMER CINQUAINS

i crossed 

the valley bridge;

found and lost her again,

and left the summers of my heart

behind.

that was

a bright full day;

saw her, gone forever,

and threw my own sweet monsoon dreams

away.

the next bridge...

some other place,

other space, how and where?

i'll just cross the next one when i--

get there.

THE resort in Gozaga town in Cagayan is aptly called STR or Sirok ti Rangtay (Under the Bridge). You have to pass under the bridge to reach the bank where a picnic area and a newly built hotel-type rooms for overnight visitors are found.  

The bridge, of medium-length or about three or four spans, crosses the Wangag River, which is more like a broader outlet of an irrigation system than the usual rivers we have in Ilocos. The water below the bridge, however, is clean and serene.

I went down the river bank, waded in the shallow water, and got a clear view of the bridge from below. A light wind, fresh and cool, fanned my cheek. Whirling over me are patches of cotton clouds covering the light-blue April sky. The scenery was a sort of idyllic with the cool river flowing lazily to the shallow part, the carabao having a refreshing dip after a long afternoon of grazing, the grass sprawled around the river bank, and the deep-green foliage on both sides whispering romantic tunes into the air. I lost no time taking pictures of the bridge and around the place.

I grew up seeing lots of rivers and bridges everyday as a young boy living in Ilocos. Bridges never fail to fascinate me; their panoramic views, from atop the bridge overlooking a river, or from a distance, can be very manipulative, evoking memories, and sometimes, they do get me.

The Sta. Maria Bridge near my hometown in Ilocos is a common sight from my grandfather’s farm where my cousins, brothers and I worked during breaks from school. I would go to the bridge with my borrowed bike and contemplate on my future beneath the graying reflection of the late afternoon sky. And during college, the Banaoang Bridge in Santa town was a constant reminder of my weekly travels to Vigan for my college education and my weekly homecoming to our place in Narvacan. Along the highway, I would pass rivers of different widths dividing communities, barrios, and towns but bridges were purposely built to connect the gaps.

And this bridge in Gonzaga town was never part of the memory of my youth, as it was my first time to be in that place in the valley, and yet it somehow linked me to my past.

There was this girl, my classmate with whom I had a relationship that spanned two semesters in college. But we remained good friends after we left school, we wrote to each other, and we had good time together when we met in two or three instances in Manila. After our last meeting in ’95, I lost contact with her until one of her letters reached my old address in Narvacan. She was then working abroad, recently widowed with a daughter left with my friend’s father in Gonzaga. By that time, I already have my own family. For about three years, we exchanged letters, long distance calls, and text messages. I consider her my special friend and I like an older brother to her. And suddenly her letters, calls and text messages stopped altogether, and later I heard from one of her friends that she had nervous breakdown abroad. The call was hastily made and the male caller did not elaborate. I had no idea how to get in touch with her then. Everyone, it seems, has a regular e-mail account, a Facebook account, but she had none. 

An invitation for me to conduct a lecture in an annual convention of Ilocano writers in Gonzaga was something that I could not resist. Finally, I got the chance to look for her in her father’s hometown. It was tough luck that I could find her there without any particular address in mind. But luck did smile on me, because I was able to meet her. One of the male participants in the convention was the same friend that called me years before about her nervous breakdown. My friend is now married to him.

She came to me in the last day of the convention and it was not as dramatic as I thought seeing her in person after almost 10 years. But still, we got a good hour of non-stop chat about our own past and present. “Things have turned around between us,” I kidded her, “now I am the widower, and you’re the one married.”  

I was linked to my past, though very briefly, and after that, I had to cross this bridge again, and perhaps my last time to cross it for her. I went home consoled by the thought that she’s safe and sound now with her new family.

At the time, I didn’t appreciate the magnitude of the events of that day. But only after seeing the pictures of the bridge, which I took with my camera that I realized I made images that have a sentimental quality. I chose one picture that I loved and posted it in my Facebook account, with the caption: I crossed the bridge in the Valley to find her and lose her again...  

But somebody got intrigued about the “her” in the caption, and commented that she knew about this girl. So I told this FB friend that the line was only a part of an unfinished poem. Not contented, she asked for the poem, maybe to confirm for herself that I was not making, in her own word, a palusot (excuses). 

And so with haste, I made a free verse of my thoughts on the picture opening up my heart as much as I can, starting with the opening part of an unfinished verse. And, voila, with a little editing, I made my second set of cinquains for my blog. And I felt relieved.