I drove to a densely populated section of this old town where tartanillas still roam the narrow streets. As I slowly looked for the house, a truck of missionaries in white sped past me as if leading the way and then turned off some corner and disappeared. I have no idea why I wanted to visit this man with my pineapples as I went inside an old house across a chapel. The carved wooden doors and ornate console table by the entrance reminded me of my own home. I was led upstairs to where he was waiting for me.
I felt like a suitor visiting my sweetheart. "Please be seated", as someone ushered me to one of those carved antique chairs in front of him. There he was, standing by the window at the corner of the sala, sheepishly grinning at me. Then we were alone, silently staring at each other.
I need a light, I thought. I'm having butterflies in my tummy here. I then lighted two candles and placed them in front of him and said, "Hey, Vince, we finally meet."
San Vicente Ferrer looked radiant in his black habit with golden pineapple embellishments in front. He's been there since the 1800's, surviving a broken arm, falling hair and dry skin from years of sun exposure during parades. The late morning sun filtered through the windows bathing his delicate golden wings and halo with shimmering light. His face had this youthful glow as if he just had a fresh facial complete with diamond peel.
This patron saint of builders and masons joined the Dominican Order of Preachers and received the habit at the age of 18. He carried his black Book of Revelations like he was about to preach but then he was speechless in front of me. I just closed my eyes and bathed in this wonderful quiet moment between two frames of thought beside the wooden windows. I'm in love.
I blew him a kiss and left him a little black rosary. He'll be 657 years old this coming January 23rd.
I went to visit a prisoner convicted of raping his daughter. The cell he shared with another inmate was made of makeshift cardboard lined walls while tattered shirts hang as curtains. Eyeing a Coke bottle by the bedside, I didn't bother finding out where the toilet was as the place reeked of ammonia.
This man was on death row and there I was listening to his story, feeling his remorse as if I was there to absolve his sins. Whether my presence made a difference in his last days or not, I felt we were just playing bahay-bahay in that little cell, laughing and sharing stories like kids. After all, every visitor has the right to make-believe that there exists a world where an ounce of happiness still feels like freedom from the confines of one's boundaries.
Visitors have expectations that certain things are done according to their level of comfort. Not all visits are pleasant experiences. In one of my high-energy moments, I couldn't sleep at three in the morning so I went to visit one of the government hospitals nearby where my friend interned. As a visitor, was I supposed to intervene where doctors leave those moments in the hands of fate? Patients looked at me like they are face to face with an angel of death - part of them fearing pain and dying, part of them finding relief that in a few seconds they will be crossing that bridge to eternity.