Fragments of my life

So sorry I had no column again last Saturday. I had to set up my exhibit virtually by myself. Pushing my schedules around, being late for this and that, I realized I would miss my deadline. My opening night was Wednesday, you see, and that is my deadline.

Around 4:30 p.m. of opening night, Manny Duldulao came to look. I approached him tentatively to find out what he thought about my watercolors. Manny Duldulao is an art critic who writes art books. He said he found my paintings very European in style, a mix of the styles of Van Gogh and Gauguin, very unusual in the Philippines. That compliment sent my spirits soaring and gave me enough energy to last the whole night. Manny made me feel worthwhile as a painter. That comment made my day.

I got home dead tired, couldn’t sleep that night from exhaustion so the next day was struck off the calendar for me. I spent it alone at home just trying to get my energy back.

The following day I went to visit my mother. I brought postcards of my work and pasted them on her wall. My topic, after all, was her illness, Alzheimer’s disease. “Here, Mom, look,” I said, but she did not look. She just kept talking about her places, getting irritated then angry. Suddenly her eyes fell on the postcards. She said, “How beautiful those are!” Then she went on complaining.

From there I proceeded to a lunch for Coca-Cola retirees. We had a fairly good time and I made a date with some friends to come see my exhibit later in the week. Then I went to spend a babysitting weekend with my grandchildren, who now live at the end of the universe in a place that resembles paradise. Their neighbors found a bird’s nest with five little feathered creatures. They took one each and spent two whole days petting them. I was quietly worried that the creatures might simply turn over and die. But they didn’t. Finally their mother returned and convinced them to return the birdies to their nest so their mother bird could find them again. All shared a sigh of relief. That way maybe the poor, adorable starlings would still die far from our little ones.

At my daughter’s home, I read books. They have no TV set, are against children watching TV. The same law applied to me. I realized I could now read pretty fast, finished two whole books in three days. I did not bring my computer. She had no FreeCell on hers, so no computer solitaire either, just an easy peace, not very quiet sometimes with the children screaming play instructions to each other, but truly enjoyable. I liked the time given to me to be with the children. It gave us the opportunity to become friends. When you’re a grandmother, what else can you be but good friends with your grandchildren? You find them delightful, terribly amusing, and you worry so but try not to show it when they get sick.

Monday around noon I was home again though in my mind it was the start of my weekend. My car is off the road on Tuesdays so my driver and I have adjusted our week. Monday and Tuesday are now what Saturday and Sunday are to other people.

I opened my mailbox and found an invitation to the Yatco clans’ family reunion. My mother’s family is a somewhat reluctant member of this clan. It will happen tomorrow, Sunday, Nov. 25, at the Hotel Vivere in Alabang. There’s a Mass at 11 a.m. and then lunch.

“The Yatco Clans,” the invitation reads, then one of them put in a “Ÿ” and typed in “F Cruz” to make us feel included. They are relatives of my grandfather Daniel Cruz, from Biñan, who married Maria Mercado (Rizal) and later on they separated. When I was small I remember hearing stolen-inheritance stories that created a wide rift that did not mend itself. I cannot go. My exhibit is still on and I have a busy day on Sunday.

These are the fragments of my life these days. They seem scattered and dissimilar, like a jigsaw puzzle just taken out of a box but not yet begun. One day they will make sense, I tell myself. One day the picture will come out. Until then, I beg for your patience and your forgiveness. I missed a deadline once again. I was putting my exhibit — in a sense, my life — together all by myself.

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