On the 19th of November, leaves retreat from the branches, struggles to find new home amongst the grasses, its voyage with the wind stucks in memory, You have you poured, twigs broken in harmony.

When love and laughter has exhausted themselves after Christmas Eve, Day, New Year’s Eve, and finally the New Year, I’m left with the memories of it, a standstill of the joy captured, frozen in time. Just like that, party’s officially over. The gifts have been open, the money inside the envelopes evaporated, and the paksiw finally consumed in its entirety. A gaping hole that emerged right after the most festive season, a longing for it to go on forever. Nevertheless, it’s a constant reminder that joy will only ever be appreciated when we’re bombarded with everything else, that it’s spent sparsely, in order for us to appreciate life and the things that come with it, with Christmas being one merry example.

Every house filled with festive trinkets and a an often wobbly yet earnestly built Christmas tree create a welcome atmosphere to the joyous season; yet, to many people, their homes find genuine warmth by embracing the true mark of the beginning of Christmas through the nine-day observance of Simbang Gabi or Mass at Dawn. But why is it that the majority of Catholic Filipinos flock to churches at such an early hour? Is it for the supposed wish that would be bestowed on a person should they complete all days of Simbang Gabi? Or is there more to the tradition that families and friends celebrate in the days leading up to Christmas?

The flawed walkways taught me soon enough, I am made to be agile and nimble. It wasn't too hard to memorize the road. No older than fifteen, I was told I was small by the sidewalk that narrowed. And when September came, Jose Mari Chan would find his way back. Singing in new speakers and old radios notes dancing in the parol workshops which lined that Old Cabuyao Road. Stars are waking up then the light glows.

Behold the Moon on the vigil’s quiet hours, Silvering the sky amidst the dark nights Her glow serene above shadowed bowers And guides souls from the blinding lights. For the moon is a mirror, so still and clear, Of the light she bears from the Sun. A lustre that dims every single murk of fear, The beacon that points to the face of her Son.

On November 29, 2023, former US Secretary of State Henry Kissinger passed away at the age of 100. There lies a man known worldwide, which is odd given despite being the topmost position in the executive department behind the president in history’s biggest empire, secretaries of state don’t often get to the fame, or infamy rather, of Kissinger.

You once asked me how it feels to live far from home, and I told you in Cebu, the first words I learned wasn’t maayong buntag— but amping.

We are food for worms, says John Keating in Dead Poets Society. It’s humbling to die, and it’s devastating to be gone and face your own end like the rest of humanity, or even seeing others facing theirs. Sometimes, to grieve is to expect somebody’s return, but a dead person isn’t coming back, so what you could only do is to stare at the tombstone, as if it were to look at a past history.