It's that day of the year when the Catholics, practicing or otherwise, swarm to the cemeteries to visit and remember the dead. It has now been known as a merry-making day as such holiday is characterized by foods (offering for the dead and the err alive), music (singing in the videoke/karaoke til the wee hours of the morn) and families getting together for the occasion. Not to mention the occasional riots and rumbles when people get tipsy and things look blurry.
The remains of the departed members of my family - which includes my real mom, grandpa, grandma and aunt - are kept in one of them apartment/compartment-type thingies beside the city church. It is actually a very strategic location because less people go there and it keeps the anti-social me happy.
This year's celebration was rainy. You can see people lighting candles, laying flowers all under umbrellas. While "hanging-out" there, my nephew, Ace, muttered a line which took me to a strange and contemplative state.
"Why should the good die young?"
Ace is about 8 years old, loves the Cartoon Network and speaks like a grown-up. Such words from the mouth of a young. Clever ikkle bugger.
And the memories of my other nephew named Arnulfo came to me. He died when he was 10 - electrocuted days after a big typhoon visited our place and died in the arms of his mother. It was kinda like Pieta come alive.
He was the sweetest nephew ever. I was only 3 years older than him but even when we were young, he called me Auntie Beth. One Christmas Eve, we stayed up til we caught the oldies bring in Santa's goodies. That was our last Christmas together.
He could've been 23 years old and dashingly handsome if he was alive right now.
So yeah, Ace was right. Why should the good die young?
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