A ballpen that wouldn't write

Had I not known that it was a funeral mass, I would have thought that it was the high mass for the Boljoon town fiesta. The town's Nuestra Señora Patrocinio de Maria Church was filled with people. Those who could no longer be accommodated inside endured the heat of the one o'clock sun in the church's yard. It seemed that the whole town had turned up to pay their last respects to Dr. Renato Estella Amper.

It was not difficult to imagine why they were there. Dr. Amper had practiced medicine in his hometown of Boljoon all his life. Everyone in church that afternoon must have been his patient (or had a relative who was a patient) at some point. His children related how some of them would refuse to be treated by other doctors. Even after they would move to another town, they still came to Boljoon and sought him out for their medical problems. He never refused to treat anyone and it was not unusual for him to be roused from sleep in the middle of the night to attend to a patient.

He was the town's vice mayor. He had also served as its mayor for several years. I do not know of any other town which could claim that it had a poet for a mayor. He had won several Palanca awards. I had wondered why he would want to enter the messy world of politics instead of just writing and practicing medicine, pursuits that I considered more noble than politics. It must have been his love for Boljoon and his desire to serve its people that made him do it.

As mayor, he initiated projects for the preservation of Boljoon's natural and cultural heritage. Atty. Edmund Villanueva, the President of the Boljoon Heritage Foundation, credits Dr. Amper for pushing for the formation of the foundation. This information did not come as a surprise to me. After all, several years ago, Dr. Amper had been jailed for slander after he spoke out against the individuals suspected of spiriting away relics and religious artifacts from the Boljoon Church.

To us, he was a beloved member of a close-knit family. He was the only child of my grandfather's only sibling. As the eldest grandchild, he was doted upon by everyone. My mother recalls how my great grandmother would cook his favorite food when he came home from school in the city. They treated him like their eldest brother and called him "Manoy Rene." We called him "Papa Rene."

A few months ago, I had texted Papa Rene to ask about the plan to remodel the Boljoon Municipal Hall. He confirmed that it was true. He added that he was no longer a member of the Boljoon Heritage Foundation but that he could refer me to the people in charge. We agreed to meet in Boljoon. I became very busy and never got to go. It was too late when I finally saw him at the hospital a few hours before he died.

The men insisted on bearing his coffin on their shoulders even if there was a funeral car available. Slowly, the people inched their way to the Catholic Cemetery. I saw an old woman walking barefoot. Another one rode a trisikad. Mothers carrying their babies came too. His funeral procession resembled the procession for the town's patron saint, minus the carozas.

His daughter, Nenen, read a poem that he had written years ago entitled "Poem Which Should Have Been Found in My Pocket Had I Died Last Night." He wrote: "If I should die tonight, God/ Let me pass away/ between the Rene and the Estella/ with my body and the bottom/ between a box of bubble gum/ and a ballpen that wouldn't write."

I think that Papa Rene got his wish.

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