DAY ONE OR ONE DAY

From the moment I was widowed in 2011, remarriage became a frequent topic of conversation whenever my interactions with relatives and peers turned deeply personal. Even in casual meetings, variations of the same questions inevitably surface:

“O, may asawa ka na?” (Have you finally found a wife?) 

Upon receiving a negative answer, the usual follow-up follows:

“Kailan mo balak mag-asawa?” (When do you plan to get married?) 

A blunt shrug or deflection might solicit a reassuring comment: “Sabagay, maganda yan para maalagaan mo mga anak mo.” (Well, that’s good, so you have time to look after your kids).

I seem to take it all in stride. I am unlike some unmarried women I know who suffer deeply from these casual remarks about getting hitched—to the point of shunning family reunions or school batch gatherings. I understand that there are religious, familial, and community expectations surrounding singlehood and widowhood. However, it is my life, and only I know what is best for me. Perhaps I have simply found contentment in being single and unattached again.

Before married life, I used to live alone in a rented room in Quezon City, navigating independence right after college. In many ways, my current life is a reversion to that old routine—except now, I have children to raise. I am not the typical man who desperately seeks someone else to organize his world, manage everyday household tasks, or curate his social calendar.

Yet, I have a very close female friend from my high school days who loves to tease me about my choice to remain single. Whenever she senses a hint of complaint in my life after a brief kumustahan, she remarks emphatically: “Mag-asawa ka na kasi!” (Why not just get married already!). To pivot away from the topic, I usually offer a non-committal answer: “Darating din ako dyan.” (I’ll get there soon). To which she always counters: “Kailan?” (When?).

During our last conversation this year, just to stop her pestering, I finally told her that I had decided to seek marriage again. I joked that the day after our meeting would mark "Day One" of my serious search for a lifetime partner. Matchless in her energy, she reminded me that "Day One" is always better than "One Day," cheering me on with a spirited, "Go! Go!".

Predictably, my "Day One" stretched into many days, a week, and then a month without any real action. By our next meeting, her impatient questions—“Meron na ba?” and “Kailan?”—reverberated once more.

But when, exactly, is the right "Day One" to pursue a goal like getting hitched again? 

I once read an article on a news website stating that it usually does not take long for widowers to remarry. A University of Pennsylvania sociologist found that the average timeframe for widowers who remarry is about two and a half years; for widows, it is three to five years. This statistical finding validates the cultural stereotype that men date sooner and remarry more quickly than women. Having been widowed for the past six years, I am well past that average timeframe.

Honestly, throughout those years, remarriage never crossed my mind. Perhaps I prioritize the welfare of my young children over my own desires. Or perhaps resilience in the face of tragedy plays a role. A hasty decision to remarry can easily result in hurt and complex feelings within a family. My mother-in-law once confided in me that she wept after dreaming that I had taken a new wife. Her reaction is entirely understandable. Furthermore, I must be certain that I am not merely trying to replace my former spouse with just another warm body. Because of this, I hold a higher set of standards.

For me, the true turning point is emotional readiness—the moment I have truly moved forward from a tragic loss. I think I finally have, even though a loss that massive leaves a permanent scar to remind me of past pain. I no longer grapple with the overwhelming distress of knowing our family will never be physically complete again.

I finally removed my wedding ring—though only a year ago. It took me six years to make that choice because I had once promised my late wife that I would raise my right hand with that ring on when taking my oath as a lawyer. But I didn't pass the bar, and I no longer have the time to retake it.

Now, I must consider my three children, who are all in their teenage years. I am not entirely sure if they are ready to accept a stepmother. I haven't discussed it with them yet because there was nothing to talk about; before today, I hadn't actively looked for love.

Maybe tomorrow I will practice flashing my most charming smile around new, younger coworkers or neighbors. Maybe I'll start chatting with single Facebook friends on Messenger, or perhaps give an ex a buzz. I haven’t flirted since before I got married, and I likely just need a burst of initial energy to break the ice.

It may take a long time to get where I want to be. But with steady focus, sooner or later, I hope to find someone who is simply wonderful to be around. Perhaps I will find her, and perhaps the kids will like her, too.

Now feels like the right Day One to embark on this worthwhile pursuit. Rome wasn't built in a day, but they definitely started the construction with a Day One.

"UNFRIENDING" THE DEAD

IT IS that time of the year again when we remember our beloved dead. At this exact moment, a realization strikes me: my Facebook friends who have crossed over into the Great Beyond still remain on my Friends List.

It is incredibly easy to bid them a final goodbye. With just the click of a button next to their name, they are gone. Yet, that is something I have never done. Nor have I ever skidded through my list to deliberately start deleting people—whether they are inactive users, those pesky individuals who love to share troll-inspired misinformation and fake news, or those I haven't seen in so long that I have forgotten why I accepted their friend requests in the first place. Perhaps I am simply too busy to bother, rarely spending enough time on Facebook to justify overhauling my account to root out obsolete connections. Or perhaps, I feel deeply ill at ease with the word "unfriend," especially in the case of my wife, who passed away in 2011. I like to think I honor her by remembering the good times we shared, and by treasuring what she left behind for me and our family

HUMILITY IN THE WORK PLACE

IN JANUARY, I was tasked with delivering a pep talk for our agency as part of our Monday flag-raising ceremony. It was just a few days before the historic pastoral visit of Pope Francis to our country. Because of this, I chose to discuss the very virtue the "People’s Pope" is most known for: humility.

Pope Francis embodies deep humility. To him, humility means intentionally spending time with the people we find hard to live with—those we probably like the least. He actively denounced self-importance when he preferred a modest, two-room residence over the grand papal apartment in the Vatican's Apostolic Palace. He showed it again when he waited in line with regular employees at the Vatican canteen, and when he gave up his private chauffeur to take the bus to work.

When we speak of humility through the lens of the Pope’s examples, it is easy to sound deeply religious, as if preaching church doctrine. And why not? Humility is considered the mother of all virtues, and one of the most important lessons Jesus Christ imparted to his disciples, believers, and all present-day Christians. Scripture teaches us that God cannot work through us if we are consumed by pride.

The word humility comes from the Latin root humus, meaning "earth" or literally "on the ground." St. Thomas Aquinas noted that humility "consists in keeping oneself within one’s own bounds, not reaching out to things above one, but submitting to one’s superior." [1] This aligns perfectly with the Catholic Church's definition: humility, in a higher and ethical sense, is that by which a person has a modest estimate of their own worth and submits themselves to others. 

CLASS '89 HIGH SCHOOL REUNION

WE WERE one in singing "Farewell," a ballad by Bagets star Raymond Lauchengco and a favorite graduation song of our time. It was a fitting way to say goodbye to our beloved alma mater, our teachers, our best friends, and the rest of our schoolmates. For the Class of 1989 of Narvacan National Central High School, graduation marked the end of a youth filled with intense emotions and excitement. It closed the chapter on our seatmates, group projects, high school crushes, the JS Prom, extracurricular activities, and the music we played during school programs. The friendships that had officially begun four years earlier had reached a turning point, and the years ahead would test our commitment to staying in touch.

Right after high school, we went our separate ways. While most of our classmates from the Acacia section trooped to Manila or Baguio for college, I stayed in Ilocos with Romano Peralta, Gilda Damayo, Mayrene Pintado, Joan Cauton, Jerry Cabanit, and Carolina Filarca. We enrolled at and graduated from the University of Northern Philippines in Vigan.

A LETTER TO MOTHER

Dear Inang,

I'm sorry this comes late for Mother's Day. During that day, I couldn't write a single note for you. I tried, but all I could remember was that morning in the kitchen a month before. It was the most poignant scene, the one I could easily recall; though at that time, I didn't realize its effect on me. I think of it now, like a reader flipping through the pages of an old photo album, turning back to that event in just one glance.

It was the morning I arrived with my brother and two sisters from the hospital in San Fernando. Tatang, whom we fetched with a hired ambulance, was lying lifeless, half-covered with a blanket on the wooden bed in the sala. While everyone around me was crying and groaning, I stood there frozen. My heart was in ecstatic pain. I was looking out the window, but seeing nothing. I was contemplating our loss when you suddenly came to me, held my shoulder, and sobbed.

5 YEARS OF FACEBOOKING

IT WAS December 22, 2008, when I opened my Facebook account at the invitation of Arlyn, a law school classmate. This was more than four years after Mark Zuckerberg and his peers first introduced the online social networking service to their fellow Harvard students. A day after my name and ID photo cropped up in a blue-and-white corner of cyberspace, my cousin Danny Cadorna—whom I had not seen since he left for Japan in 1994—sent me my first-ever friend request. Soon, other relatives, friends, former classmates, coworkers, and even strangers requested to join my friends list. They say that most people who know how to use a computer and the internet have a Facebook profile. Unsurprisingly, in just a short span, my notifications swelled with requests to connect, play games, join groups, and "like" various pages.

GRIEF RECOVERY FICTIONS

READING BOOKS has become my lifeline in coping with grief. After my wife passed away, I began consuming books obsessively, desperately trying to fill the quiet hours where thoughts of my loss might otherwise take over. Keeping myself busy in the days immediately following her death acted as a crucial pain reliever; I found I was always at my loneliest when I wasn't reading.

During this period, I scoured bookstore shelves and e-book lists for any literature on grief. I hoped these books would offer the wisdom needed to understand my experience, speaking to me on a personal level in the quiet solitude of my darkest days. I was looking for a lifeline to carry around, but I found no success—or perhaps I simply didn't know where to look. I am not a religious person, nor am I particularly drawn to inspirational books, though I have read a few.