TODAY is my late wife’s birthday, and I do not know how I am supposed to observe her special day.
Two days ago, my daughter suggested that we should celebrate by preparing the usual fare for a family occasion—a hearty snack of pancit bihon or canton, puto, and lechon manok.
"Just because Mom is gone, it doesn’t mean we no longer celebrate her, right?" she asked in a small, sad voice.
My sons wanted us to attend church this Sunday—though I must admit, since my wife's passing a few months back, I have not been able to bring myself to attend Mass. Alternatively, they suggested visiting her grave in Makati. But I wanted to stay home and be left entirely alone today. I simply wanted to meditate and try to reach her. Or, perhaps, to forget everything entirely, if only for today.
I cannot help but look back on the years we spent together, especially during milestones like this. Did I make her happy? Did we share enough truly special moments? I admit that I committed my share of mistakes and allowed a certain laxity to creep into our relationship. Sometimes it was plain absent-mindedness on my part; other times, it was simply a lack of means and time. But I always loved my wife. I always will. Now I truly understand the weight of that old cliché: you only love a person more once they are gone.
Unfortunately, life demands that I work at the office today, and the kids still have to go to school. This morning, I sat down with them and explained that while their Mom may no longer be physically around and we might not celebrate her birthday the way we used to, she remains permanently etched in our hearts.
While browsing through my files a few weeks after her burial in August, I stumbled upon a letter I had written to her exactly seven years ago today. It was purposefully left unsent because it was merely an entry in my personal journal at the time. Finding it brought a sharp, agonizing pang of regret that I had never given her the chance to read it. Yet, reading it now provides a beautiful, touching window into our shared past.
Dear Rosalie,
Today is your 32nd birthday, and it marks the ninth year that I get to greet you personally on your special day. Of course, across that span of time, we have never had an extraordinary or extravagant celebration. Our milestones have always been measured by warm kisses early in the morning, watching a movie, dining out together, and exchanging simple gifts.
I could never think of a grander way to celebrate that didn't go far beyond my means—there were no luxury trips to Hong Kong or Boracay, no shopping sprees in Glorietta or Bangkok, no diamonds or gold bracelets, no song-and-dance numbers, and no circus.
But two days ago, I thought of buying you a potted plant this time—perhaps a white rose, an orchid, or some beautiful ornamental greenery that you could nurture every single day. I envisioned giving it to you alongside a fashionable T-shirt or blouse, something I have never actually done for your past birthdays. Remember last year when I gave you a 1,000-peso SM gift check? Talk about a total lack of creativity! I even accompanied you to the department store so you could buy exactly what you wanted with it.
The trouble is, I don’t even have the extra money to buy you a simple gift right now. We are two days short of payday. I am currently down to my last twenty pesos and a bit of loose change from the two thousand pesos I borrowed from my sister May, which went entirely toward paying my application fee for the Law Aptitude Exam (LAE)—the entrance test for incoming freshmen at the UP College of Law.
I didn't even have the time to slip away from work to visit a department store along EDSA or down nearby Carriedo Street, because for days leading up to this, I have been frantically cramming for the entrance exam. To make matters worse, the date of the examination coincides exactly with your birthday today.
Please understand why I have to be away from the wonderful lunch you prepared for our visitors from Malate—Ate Tess and Nanay—and my brother Milton, who traveled all the way from Sampaloc to cook my favorite dish, dinakdakan. While all of you are sitting down to eat, I will be wracking my rusty brain trying to solve a barrage of difficult exam questions, particularly in problem-solving, abstract reasoning, and logical deduction.
Still, I keep telling myself that an exam like this coinciding with your special day is a sign. Like a proper alignment of the stars, I hope it augurs a better, brighter fortune for both of us.
I am incredibly sorry that I couldn't give you a proper present today. I promise to make it up to you very soon—perhaps this coming Christmas, or on our wedding anniversary on December 30.
Happy birthday, sweetheart!
NEYO
My wife never got to see her 39th birthday today.
Knowing how fragile her condition was becoming near the end, I had been quietly saving up for an out-of-town getaway—a trip to a destination of her choice, just for the two of us. But time ran out, and it is too late now. I ended up spending the money I had set aside to cover our children's immediate needs instead.
I stopped writing in my journal around the middle of 2005, and now these loose, handwritten pages have become part of a sacred memento that instantly resurrects fond memories of the life my children and I shared with her.
I did end up passing the LAE and enrolled at the University of the Philippines in June 2005, though I had to transfer to another institution after my first semester. I probably should have quit entirely after that short, intimidating stint at the premier university, but it was my wife who fiercely urged me to keep going and pursue my dream.
Now, I am finally in my very last semester before earning my law degree. It brings an immense, profound sadness to know that she won't be sitting in the audience to watch me receive my diploma next year. Yet, I know that wherever she is right now, she is gladly waiting for that day. Armed with that thought, whenever I whisper, "Happy Birthday, Sweetheart," I know deep down that she accepts it with open arms—in spite of all my shortcomings.
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