And as your breathing resonates in the sterile room—a soft ballad tethered to lungs of steel—you wonder. How does one bury herself? Beneath the earth, like a shell in white, veiled in the tapestries of all you ever were? Or perhaps a mosaic, adorned in dead dreams? Every layer, a failed love. Every color, a version of you whom you had to kill.
There’s something about dying at 39 that draws you back to summer days in the province. Lying in the cold, your mind journeys to the warmth of those sun-drenched afternoons when laughter was truer and lingered like the scent of Sampaguitas in the air. Which game was it where we scribbled in the pavement, tossed stones, and then hopped where they landed? Whose idea was it to steal fruits from Mang Ricky’s mango tree and eat them by the lake? And when did you forget how to dance?
The memories, now distant echoes, blend with the realization that life, much like a passing season, carries both the vigor of sunlight and the inevitability of night. Some are lucky to reach a hundred, while others don’t even get to live a year. Some get to dance in front of thousands, while others get to dance with the love of their life. You smirk—you can’t have it all, I guess.
In the quiet room, surrounded by the hush of memories and sorrowful loved ones, you contemplate not death, but the intricate tapestry of a life well-lived: both colorful and dull at the seams. And almost as hard as accepting that the cancer cells are not going away is the decision of what to wear on your special day. Is one the sum of all her sunlit moments or the shadows that danced quietly in the dusk? Are you all your trophies won or the battles and dreams only you knew about? For in the end, how you go out is how they will be telling your story.
