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 Gonzaga town, Cagayan, is aptly called STR, or Sirok ti Rangtay (Under the Bridge). To reach the riverbank, you have to pass beneath the structure, where you will find a scenic picnic area and newly built, hotel-style rooms for overnight visitors. 

The bridge itself is of medium length, spanning about three or four segments as it crosses the Wangag River. The river feels less like the wide, rushing waters common in Ilocos and more like the broad outlet of an irrigation system. Yet, the water flowing below is beautifully clean and serene. I walked down to the bank, waded into the shallow water, and looked up to catch a clear view of the bridge from below. A fresh, cool breeze fanned my cheeks. Above me, patches of cotton-like clouds drifted across a light-blue April sky.

The scenery was entirely idyllic. The cool river flowed lazily into the shallows, a carabao took a refreshing dip after a long afternoon of grazing, grass carpeted the riverbank, and the deep-green foliage on both sides whispered romantic tunes into the air. I lost no time capturing photos of the bridge and its beautiful surroundings.

Growing up in Ilocos, I was surrounded by rivers and bridges every day. Bridges have always fascinated me. Their panoramic views—whether you are looking down from the top or gazing at them from a distance—have a manipulative power. They evoke deep memories; sometimes, they truly get to me. The Sta. Maria Bridge near my hometown was a constant fixture of my youth, visible from my grandfather’s farm where my cousins, brothers, and I worked during school breaks. Back then, I would ride to the bridge on a borrowed bicycle and contemplate my future beneath the graying reflection of the late afternoon sky. Later, during my college years, the Banaoang Bridge in Santa served as a landmark of my weekly routine—a reminder of my travels to Vigan for classes and my weekend homecomings to Narvacan. Along the highway, I passed rivers of various widths dividing communities, barrios, and towns, but bridges were always purposely built to bridge the gaps.

While this particular bridge in Gonzaga was never part of my childhood memories—as it was my very first time visiting this part of the valley—it somehow linked me directly to my past.

During college, I had a relationship with a classmate that spanned two semesters. Though the romance ended, we remained good friends after graduation. We wrote to each other frequently and shared wonderful moments whenever we crossed paths in Manila. After our last meeting in 1995, I lost contact with her entirely, until one of her letters eventually reached my old address in Narvacan. By then, she was working abroad and had been recently widowed, leaving her daughter in the care of her father in Gonzaga. By that time, I had already started my own family.

For about three years, we rekindled our connection through letters, long-distance calls, and text messages. I considered her a very special friend, and I acted as an older brother figure to her. Then, quite suddenly, the letters and messages stopped altogether. I later learned from one of her friends that she had suffered a nervous breakdown while abroad. The phone call was brief, and the male caller didn't elaborate. I had no way of reaching her; while it seemed everyone else was adopting email and Facebook, she had no online presence.

Years later, an invitation to lecture at an annual convention for Ilocano writers in Gonzaga was an opportunity I couldn't resist. Finally, I had a chance to look for her in her father's hometown. Without a specific address, I knew it would take a stroke of luck to find her—and luck smiled on me.

As it turned out, one of the male participants at the convention was the very same friend who had called me years prior about her breakdown. My friend was now married to him. She came to see me on the final day of the convention. It wasn't as dramatic as I had imagined, seeing her in person after nearly 10 years, but we still shared a solid hour of non-stop conversation, catching up on our past and present lives.

"Things have turned around for us," I teased her. "Now I am the widower, and you are the one who is married." 

I was reconnected to my past, if only briefly. Afterward, I had to cross that bridge again—likely for the last time on her account. I journeyed home consoled by the peaceful knowledge that she was safe, sound, and happy with her new family.

At the time, I didn’t fully grasp the emotional magnitude of that day. It was only later, while reviewing the photographs I took, that I realized I had captured images steeped in sentimentality. I selected my favorite photo and posted it to Facebook with the caption: “I crossed the bridge in the Valley to find her and lose her again...” 

The ellipsis intrigued a Facebook friend, who commented that she knew the girl I was referring to. To deflect her curiosity, I told her the line was merely an excerpt from an unfinished poem. Unsatisfied, she demanded to read the rest of it, perhaps to check if I was just making a palusot (an excuse).

Urged by her insistence, I hurriedly composed a free-verse poem based on the feelings that the photograph stirred in me, opening my heart as wide as I could and anchoring it with those initial, unfinished lines. With a little bit of editing, it became my second set of cinquains for my blog. And finally, I felt a deep sense of relief.