Every third Sunday of January, the post office of heaven must be overflowing with requests from clasped hands for good weather. Most of these requests come from Cebu City.

I used to live a few blocks away from Downtown Campus. My family resided in a basin in the city which often flooded at the slightest fall of rain. Water from higher areas of the city ran down sloped streets and right in front of our doorstep. Though, every Sinulog, the weather would be just fine, as hundreds of people flowed like runoff a few feet from our rusty gate. Even though junior high school was the last time I was a painted face in the sea of people, I recall the scorching sun’s reflections on golden adornments piercing my eyes, streams of salt down my forehead and mixing with red and yellow pigment. Half my body felt pain; the crushing weight of grown-ups looming over me and the soles of my feet pulled to the earth. But the other half–the half with my eyes and ears–overloaded with bright colors, loud music, and majestic floats across General Maxilom Avenue. 

It seemed as if the most beautiful people on Earth were dancers that day. Of course, the most eye-catching of them all would be the young woman dressed in colorful intricate patterns with the Sto. Niño statue cradled in her hands. Though it was at times difficult to see, her eyes smiled as wide her ruby red lips, her dress swayed with her body like water swirling in a glass. She was exactly like that–water in a glass. The way her dress twirled around her like a typhoon from space was hypnotic, so much so that I felt guilty for looking at the clear blue skies to breathe better. Amidst the thick stench of sweat and raised arms, it was often hard to breathe. As the parade went on, I began to miss breathing cool breeze and silence, but why should I when there was a kaleidoscope right in front of me. I didn’t want to miss the vibrant colors. I didn’t want to miss the grace embodied in a human.

The crowds in the city were miniature in comparison to that of inside churches. After all, the vibrant parties and earth-rumbling music made Sinulog Cebu’s biggest party, but quiet togetherness is its essence. Local churches either during Sinulog or the week leading up to the main event would be packed with people. The priests at these services must have been heard by a thousand participants spilling out of the church doors. Back then, I figured out that the best way to count exactly how many people were in attendance was to wait for the “Gozos” to count how many hands would be up. Of course, I never did count them all, but I had realized that the movements to honor Sto. Niño were exactly like a river–graceful and meticulous. The waving hands of the old woman in front of me, or the stern young man behind me, or of my own, imitated waves in our vast oceans–not violent waves that could break rocks and topple boats, but waves that gently brush against the greater blue. It was in these gentle waves where the essence of togetherness flowed through still humid air.

My last Sinulog was years ago. That was before I had developed severe migraines, and not too long after my closest companions admitted to being claustrophobic. But if by some miracle, I wouldn’t have to take a Tylenol daily, or if my friends and family felt at home in massive waves of people, I would like to go back to that spot around General Maxilom Avenue with many more colors of pigment smeared across my face and glasses. This time, I would like to have golden tinsel in my hair that sparkles in the blazing sun. It would be nice to see her dance like swirling water in a glass. It would be nice to be a singular wave in the sea of people again.