My first bestfriend happened to be my first degree cousin. Her name was Mitchell, born only one month and 11 days before me.
Mitchell, or Itche, was my Auntie Lalang’s second child.
Our houses were literally a stone’s throw away from each other that Itche and I grew up to be close friends attending the same day care and the same kindergarten school.
We were inseparable.
Growing up with a generous grandmother, we were showered with bags, candies and whatever pretty things little girls could have. We hopped from one house to the other to invite friends to join us to explore fishponds and the great beyond that was the wilderness of the village.
We chased dragonflies and grasshoppers.
We dreamed together.
I wanted to be a doctor. She wanted to be a teacher. I always took the lead; Itche my follower.
She was literally the yin to my yang. I was unafraid of bullies as a young girl. I was always ready to get into a fight when people called me “ugly.”
The mean children called Itche “budlat” because of her big eyes.
I never quite understood why they made it appear that her big eyes are a weakness. I have never seen a pair of big eyes that beautiful.
She had long eyelashes, a soft voice and the kindest heart.
Itche would always let me have a taste of her Yakult drink. It was a luxury for my family those days as my father was still looking for an opportunity to sail the international route as a seafarer.
My mother was a housewife.
I had three younger siblings so Yakult was not a priority. Itche’s parents, on the other hand, both had jobs. They were clearly well-to-do. But she never let me feel that I did not have what she had. She was always ready to share.
We were playing at the back of my grandparents’ house when we chanced upon our Auntie Malik’s rose shrubs. The rosebuds were beautiful and Itche just blurted out, “Kit, kun mamatay ko, tagai ko ani ha.” (Kit, when I die please give me these flowers).
I cannot even remember my response.
I presumed that I nodded and murmured a careless “yes.”
We were six years old. Nobody dies at six years old. I was wrong.
Several days after the rose episode, Itche got really sick. Fever, skin rash and nausea.
She was also very tired. She stopped playing outside.
I only went to her room once.
Her face was red.
She said her eyes were painful.
She was rushed to the hospital a day later. The doctor said she has dengue fever. Blood transfusion happened. But it was too late. Her frail body could not take the pain.
I was told she died at 3 p.m. just as the Divine Mercy prayer was playing on TV.
This happened 15 years ago and she would have been 32 years old come July. I wonder how my world would have been had she survived dengue.
I can only wish that roses bloom wherever she is now.
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