I
met Gino in first year high school. He was a transferee from another school, so
it was the first time we met each other. We became seatmates, shared a couple
of jokes, but were never really friends. I remember him as smart and
articulate. He wasn't the best in class, but he was definitely above average.
After
that year, we never became classmates again. I saw him once in a while, and
worked with him in a school play during senior year, but our relationship never
went beyond casual acquaintances. We interacted around the same circles, but
our conversations rarely moved above polite small talk.
I
was in college when I heard the news. Gino died in a plane crash. The news was
shocking to say the least. He was young, definitely, but more than that, it
came completely out of nowhere. I made plans to go to the wake with my friends
to pay our respects.
The
plane crash and its relation to Gino's death is notably depressing in one more
aspect. You see, Gino was traveling with his family. And when I say family, I
mean the whole clan. They just came back from a family reunion. The plane crash
virtually wiped them all out.
When
we came to the wake, there were 6 coffins, of varying sizes. I asked my friend
Ron where the other dead were being kept. Ron said he didn't know. I saw Ioanis
crying in a corner. Another acquaintance, Anthony, bought several garlands of sampaguita. He was carefully, artfully,
arranging them on Gino's casket.
The
news of the plane crash was certainly huge, and appeared on a lot of local news
shows. The fact that one family came from a reunion made it even more tragic,
so particular attention was brought to Gino's family even more. His best
friend, Louis, told me that there was at least one survivor that he knew:
Gino's mom. She wasn't able to attend the reunion because she was sick. She
stayed at home while her family flew to Davao.
There
was a short mass, and prayers were said over each of the closed caskets. Ioanis
was still sobbing, and it was getting louder by the minute, but he was trying
to compose himself. Ron's eyes were red, as were mine. There was a lump in my
throat. Beyond grieving for a lost friend, we were, or at least I was,
grappling with the absurdity of the situation. How could this happen? What does
this mean? Why this complete unfair arbitrariness?
A
few weeks after the funeral, I met up with Louis, and asked him how he was. He
told me he's okay, and that he was making it a point to visit Gino's mom every
week to see how she was. He told me that the first time he saw her, she was
almost catatonic, but that she's getting better by the week. He was also
worried for her. He didn't know, rather, didn't want to think about, what she
would do if left to her own devices for too long. He wanted to share in her
pain.
He
said he missed Gino. But there was nothing he could do. He's moving on, he
said.
I
have one lasting memory of Gino, which is forever etched in my head. It was
Christmas season, and one of his friends handed me a gift. We were seniors
then. I opened the package, and found a large statue of an angel, as well as a
love letter. I thought it was sweet. It was one of those instances that made me
feel, during those difficult years, that I meant something to someone. Even
someone I didn't really know. It made me feel glad to be alive.
Photo taken here.
