My Mortal Beloveds

Love and Loved by women, it was only fitting that I would love them in return, on my own.

I confess I am a women’s man (no, not the usual archetype who have all the right moves and lines that unhooks bras and loosens panties, though I must confess I have had my share of long shots in that department, but that is another story), but in all honesty, and to the best of my abilities, I have, am, and will always, till my last moment, love women. One of the reasons why throughout the years I found myself with more sisters than what may be considered normal.

They all started out as friends, they started calling me “kuya” (geez, I am old and growing more so) and to my honor, they accepted me as a brother as I love and care for them.

A brotherhood and sisterhood bound without blood, yet thicker than blood, I should say.

But of course, it would be improper if I do not start at the beginning, and there is a beginning.

It starts with my sister.

We call each other “Ja”. Of course, she is “baby ja.”

I remember my mom was washing the plates when all of a sudden other people in the house were scampering off into emergency mode. They took my mom to the hospital, and after a few hours, she came back. This time, she held a small bundle in her arms. My sister.

I started my training in household duties early (one of the things I am grateful my mothers instilled in me because later on I found out that women dig a man who knows his way around the house) and one of my first was actually in washing the “lampin” of my sister. I remember they were usually green, thanks to the veggies, they smelled not that bad but I remember feeling icky about its gel-like texture.

I always tease my sister about how one day, while mother was preparing her milk, Duchess, our beloved Doberwoman (Doberman sounds so sexist and chauvinistic) went into the room and tended to my sister, and it worked, for my mom found my sister silent after getting licked like a lonely pup.

I remember how my sister developed her loved for mangoes. There is an old photograph, I guess she was two years old (and I was younger too) that my mother took of the two of us peeling ripe mangoes with our teeth, dripping juices and all.

My sister, baby that she was, always loved to be carried around, and one of her favorites was when I carried her on my back while I make helicopter sounds. Though I must confess that sometimes, I would stand up before she could reach my back, and she would show her dissatisfaction by crying.

Thinking about all of these old memories as I am writing this, I realize that I and my sister have never had a fight in our lives. I have seen my friends act indifferent and sometimes outright cold to their little sisters, which always bothered me every time I witnessed it.

I had to live with one of my other moms (I have four), and though we were separated, it was only by a few kilometers. Later on, we shared the same roof.

My mothers love me, but its my sisters who knew me the best. Somehow I found it easy to confide with her, especially with my dealings with the partner sex (I find labeling women as the “opposite sex” offensive, they are not enemies, but rightful and fair partners in life, agree?), and through the years, I imparted my experiences as tips and lessons on how to avoid the jackals who come in the shape of men, most of whom she was successful in avoiding (for the rest that made her cry, I am still to eat them up, though my sister, kind and caring as she is, did prevent me from doing so on the first jackal) She loved me as her brother amidst the crazy and sad things I did to women.

There is a rarely spoken but family-acknowledged joke (truth actually) that it is enough to have one of the family breathing art, for all the craziness that I have exhibited is more than enough for the family to handle. Life is not easy, and so am I. Though I did try to belong, I was an outcast in some sorts, the family star who was hoped to shine and stay bright, but I had other plans, and I went supernova.

Through all of this, my baby ja was there for me.

It was my sister, sensing the invisible turmoil and despair boiling inside of me who gave up her vacation plans so that I could use the money to have the vacation myself. This was during my crazy years, when love and life all came falling down, drawing me closer to self oblivion. Her gift that Christmas season proved to be the cure I needed to clear things out in my head.

It was my sister who came to know of my sadness, of my despair, of my struggle and newfound vision that led me to be finally home to finish the first book (finished) and to work on the others that are to come. When I told her of my plight in the city that I gave to working for the cause (women) I love, her reply was simple.

“Come home na, and rest here.”

I have been home for the past seven months. And I am happy. Ok, working on my craft, finishing the book is not easy, it helps to be around the women who love me before I knew what love was, who have loved me and will always love me.

I have always said this, and will always say this, that amidst the former flames that left me, I have been loved like no other man that I know of (except perhaps Pablo Neruda, but he is my father, so I’m cool with that.)

It’s going to be 26 years since I first saw my sister.

For someone who deals with words, I must confess I could not find the right words on how to thank my sister, and I believe I never will, but I am happy with this.

Baby ja, on the dawn of your new year, Happy Birthday. May I live long to witness and share in your travels on this place of life.

Love yah, always.

Big bro ja