LatinosUSA

He stood there like a freshly unfurled yellow chrysanthemum, smiling at me, and said, “Good morning, sir!” as I completed the fourth flight of stairs leading to the faculty room. Catching my breath, I smiled back. He stood there, glowing, as if waiting for someone. Then I went about my day. 

It was Friday, a good busy wrap of the week before the midterm exams. Although the usual pre-exams rush was on point, there was a foreboding strangeness. By lunchtime, I picked up a stronger vibe looming, an odd feeling. Like dry ice on the skin, a listless air was hovering around the campus that day. Everyone was whispering and gasping. Some were crying, others looked grief-stricken. 

 “He was a friendly student,” one of the teachers said. 

 “Life of the party,” another teacher joined. 

I asked what was going on. They said one of our students was stabbed to death yesterday at his aunt’s family-owned boarding house, «He was at the place to accompany his visiting aunt, the one who raised him in Leyte after his parents got into a car accident in Cebu. You see, he was an orphan at ten.» The young man’s life was cut short as he was shielding his beloved aunt from the attacker, a middle-aged thief armed with pointed scissors.

            “Who was he?” I asked. 

            “A working student at the Filipiniana library. He was a music major. Seventeen years old,” informed another teacher. Dark clouds of uncertainty hovered above me. I frequent the both the library and the School of Music― the former for research and me-time; the latter to play the cello― so I must have known this kid.

“You knew Chrys, sir,” said violinist Jake, flipping his signature long wavy mane. “Chrys who?” I asked, unable to attach a face to the name. It was already past six in the evening, and I was in my last class for the week, the majority of students were from the Liberal Arts.

            “Are we not going to his wake, sir?” the hyperactive violinist Gams asked. “As agreed, we need to tackle Joaquin’s May Day Eve and include the story for midterms,” I replied. The sound of utter dismay could qualify as lamentation, filling the classroom. “We can go after class.” 

            “Sir, do you know you were his idol? He never got to enrol in your classes, but he always saw you in the library,” joined the clean-cut hairstyled Philip, another violinist, tagged as the businessman in their school.

Fortune, an acoustic guitarist added, “Yes, sir, he talked about you all the time. I’m sure he’d like you to go to his wake”.

The lively conversation sounded more like a requiem in strings. I stayed quiet, pondering. The entire day I had been trying to retrieve a picture of the student in my mind to no avail. The decade of old Nokia phones, dial-up internet, and Friendster allowed me to check online, so I went to the School of Music to ask for a photo file, but the staff told me that while searching for a picture thrice, the computer shut down— thrice. No such thing happened before. The staff had the desktop checked by the IT personnel, and they found nothing wrong. Weird.

Suddenly, a scent of chrysanthemums perfumed the Literature classroom as the fluorescent lights flickered. It was Friday the thirteenth, of course everyone panicked— five girls, seated in different corners, met at the middle, disarraying the seats to instantly hug each other, eyes closed, and mouths, unable to contain their fright, shrilling in soprano; four boys were kicking each other and punching the air while screaming in alto; three drama students unitedly pushed the same cemented wall for god knows why, probably auditioning for the main role of Samson in their head; two gays, both major in arts, remained poised, standing next to each other, holding hands, reenacting Sushmita Sen and Carolina Gomez before the proclamation of the 1994 Miss Universe winner; one sprinter, an athletics varsity, dashed from the far end of the room where he was seated all the way to the door, and froze. It was a spectacle. As for the four aces? They became a statue: Jake was arming himself with a chair above his head while standing on one chair sandwiched between Gams and Philip, as if in a game of paper dance. Gams’ and Philip’s one arm wrapping the waist of Jake, like holding onto dear life; their other arm cradling Fortune, who leapt into an almost fetal position, completing a masterpiece.

“Alright settle all of you. Low voltage happens,” I quipped, ignoring the scent as I could not explain that. It took time for everyone to calm down and when the class was about to start, a huge brown moth, as big as a grown man’s palm, swooped into the room through the door. The moth hovered a little while above the head of each seated student, trying to get our full attention, before it flew higher and got stuck in the center revolving ceiling fan, three feet across my table. Before Rose, a literature major seated near the power switch could even turn the ceiling fan off, the swirling thing devoured the innocent moth. Taking the phenomenon as a glaring sign, I forgo the class and instead was on the school bus with my students to attend the wake. Strange how, as if the situation was carefully timed and planned, while we waited for a ride, the half-empty school bus exited the university gates on its way to the funeral homes. One student exclaimed, “Chrys had us picked up!”

On the bus, I learned that the student’s mortal remains would be ferried to his home island at dawn tomorrow, which meant that tonight was the chance we could bid him a safe journey home— home in all its unfurling petals of meanings.

A warm air laced with the scent of candles and mums wrapped me when we arrived at the funeral homes. It was like a long-awaited welcome, unrushed, homey, and restful like a garden at golden hour. The grieving aunt in her early sixties kindly greeted us. I extended my condolences and introduced myself and my class. The gentle aunt managed to smile and personally ushered us to the coffin where her beloved nephew lay sleeping. A framed portrait of the smiling young man was on the coffin glass. Looking at the picture closely, it hit me: I knew him… I saw him this morning. My bones turned dry ice as the joy of discovering and sorrow of his passing raced in my entire body from the tip of my toes to the ends of my hair. How do I explain to this grieving aunt that I saw his nephew this morning, smiling at me, greeting me— like a freshly unfurled yellow chrysanthemum?