I missed home. I packed. I took a trip. I have seen it all.
Everything was so clear and beautiful on that day before the end of November. After several months of wistfulness and working on the eleventh floor, I’m apparently in the province. Aged lush trees, fresh air, and my mom’s cuisine – I can’t wait Daraga! It seems like Mount Mayon welcomed me with a smile without its silky clouds. Walking towards the house, I saw old faces beaming at me. Teresa and Vangie, our lavandera greeted and asked why I’m abode. I grinned and whispered “I missed home!” The house got some improvements, huh. Of course it’s a Don Robert masterpiece again. Though I did not like the curved entrance arches and intricate concrete mouldings, I am happy for my father’s effort. Wow, I loved the fish-pond landscape at our door step! I was smiling in awe and reminiscing when momma came. I got so excited and we hugged. I was blabbing with her non-stop when an announcement from morning TV divulged a public storm signal number two warning. My momma looked scared. They’ve just recovered from typhoon Milenyo, and here comes another. I frowned. “Don’t rain on my vacation,” I was murmuring with eyes sharply glancing at the clear skies reflected on the window. I just disregarded the news and nonchalantly said, “It’ll just pass by.”
I was wrong.
On the thirtieth of November, ten in the morning, typhoon Reming (“Durian” international name) came thumping at everyone’s door at Signal #4. I could still hear audible hammering from neighborhood preparations on their houses. The streets were empty. Houses were visibly well closed. I was peeking from the window and everything was vague with fog. The apertures of our house were heavily pounding – like there was some ogre trying to break in. With more than three hours of profound grave rain and ghastly winds, storm water came inside our house. We were frantic and cold. We were experiencing some sort of "the end of the world drill." The rabid uproar won’t stop. After an hour, I peeked outside to watch people from the riverside being dragged to a large dump truck full of soaked and chilling individuals, teeth locked and grinding. I was concluding that they are saved from the highlands near Mayon. I heard that the river overflowed and threatening us with mud flows! I eventually went out to witness people evacuating further from their homes. It was scary. What if our second floor roof give-up? Our steep gable roof may not survive. Where’ll we go? I was in panic. Trees, telephone poles, electrical lines, and roof debris were knocking down outside. My Pa’s kumpare came in shuddering, uttering that his house was already buried in mud. We received strangers and neighbors in sodden clothes to stay over at the house for awhile until the wild "wind-shakings" are over.
Terrified of watching dread all over our little town, I went inside to utter some pleading prayers in front of my mom’s altar. Momma came in shouting and demanding me to find the menthol (Katinko) because one survivor brought in was unconscious. Like a blind man, I clutched the thing from the drawer. I went out instantly and saw a three year-old boy being revived by my Pa and others. My momma won’t go near the child because she was too nervous. I helped in. I grabbed his feet and placed it under my shirt. It was so cold. By doing that, I wanted to contribute some warmth. I don’t want to see a dying child in our arms. I was shaking. All of us were hugging the boy until he cried and regained some color. On the other corner, an old lady was slouched on the chair almost lifeless. My aunt grabbed her stripped out the soggy clothing, put some dry overalls and covered her in blanket. One boy dropped a chunk of biscuit on the floor. Quickly, the old lady snatched nibbling it directly into her mouth. I shouted, “Pa, she needs food!”
By four o’clock the strong winds subsided, people were calming down. Our clothes were semi-damped. My feet wrinkled by the stinky flood rain ached. I was gradually sneezing. I was staring at the survivors. Their faces blank. Everyone have their own dreadful stories to tell. The rest will be written in their own histories. Some will be published in national news. By talking with the survivors, I did discover that the three year old boy and the old woman that we revived were saved waiting at least five hours on their rooftop, fighting the freezing wind and angry mud waters. One guy even dropped by the house and the teenager beside me pointed that he saved nineteen lives from the livid river. One old man passed by carrying a TV set coated in mud uttered, “No home, no things left, but thank God, I still have my complete family members.” That was bitterness tucked inside in exchange for self-consolation. I can’t imagine I was experiencing those scenes. It was like Spielberg’s War Of The Worlds without the aliens. Somehow, there was no rich or poor. Heroes, victims and survivors shared the same goal that time: to live. Some people outside were walking back and forth like zombies. Some were homeless, while others were looking for lost family members. My distant relatives were whining about the destruction brought by the storm into their lives. Yes, the storm just ended. The frantic tension just halted. But I can see anguish in their eyes. Everyone was there not knowing what to do. They were just stucked up, static. They were waiting to know what lies ahead.
I sat on our damp sofa to put to rest my mixed emotions. In my mind, I was so thankful that nothing happened to our family and possessions. Recalling that episode of the day was hard to ponder. Amidst the exhaustion and shock, my face beamed. I was home. Leftovers of the cold wind touched my skin. I hugged myself. The perceptible squabbling from outside were not noises anymore. They were some sort of voices. I closed my eyes. Dusk slowly came in. The last surviving candle that flickered on the center table faded out. Everything was covered in darkness.
Ghastly gloom seems to bar my clear way when I want it so peacefully. Is it a crime to be silent? I’ve been feeding thoughts within me that “silence means everything.” Lesser words would be lesser pain. Though I have the propensity for verbosity and hyperbole when it comes to “other things,” I prefer minimalism in real life. I tend to be silent even with myself. If I talk with myself, or mumble within my mind, I’ll be some sort of idiot. This is the time when I see my hands covering the face in front of the mirror. 
