Recurring Dream

            I was dressed for the occasion, though I was there to act my part as proxy. I donned a signature Filipino brand of a dainty carnation pink dress fit for a ranch heiress in a rural place in the Philippines.

I drove my SUV alone listening to the music of Enya, acting like a balm, soothing my mind to take away the irritation caused by my big brother for asking me to take his mission rather than himself. It was more like a duty bound by rituals and traditions.

I kept my fly-like eyes (for the scorching heat of the midday sun led me wearing my huge shades, which I rarely do) fixed on the road. But it seemed no longer necessary because I found the bumps and turns too familiar. I felt I have been there so many in my life, that I swerved the steering wheel with ease. It felt like I was going to a destination I already been to since time immemorial.

Finally, I was almost there. First hump to signal the start of the barrio, then I saw the chapel. There was another hump to signal the school zone. I searched for a parking space. There was one in the middle of   the parish. I stepped on the brakes, drew out the key but let Enya continue to play. It was exactly three o’ clock. The place was starting to have the hullabaloo, which I anticipated as a typical Filipino barrio Fiesta.

I forced my mouth to smile. I separated my upper lip from the lower lip. I inhaled Enya’s melody until I could feel the rhythm and beats enter the sides of my cheeks. But instead I inhaled the carbon monoxide of the air-con. It was intoxicating. I guessed I really had to go out and meet them. I had to exhale Enya. I stepped out of the car and ascended the newly cemented ground of the church. The parish church had undergone drastic change. It was now as I assume was the biggest church the town could offer. It was not totally constructed though. The rough edges of the side pews were replaced by lime colored tiles. The altar gave the irony of the whole place. Its regal and royalty of gold and ivory saints contradicts the wooden front pews and unfinished stained glass windows. I wondered what happen to the monthly contributions of the townsfolk for the construction of the church.

I was greeted by a woman in her early fifties. She wore a finely ironed black pants and an old-rose colored blouse. She wore these eccentric cosmetics of bright red lipstick with the brown eyeliner which lined profusely her three-strand brows. I forced myself to smile back and reminded myself that as soon as this thing was done, I would drive fast my car home. The parish priest was late for about a quarter of an hour. The three-month old infant started to cry her lungs out. The mom, whom I was not well acquainted of, whispered to her sweet nothings that tamed her. She appeared faceless to me. Fanning them was my big brother’s friend. Actually, they are family friends, the family of my big brother’s friend. Well, they were more of a friend to my big brother and mother than I. He accidentally looked at my side and raised his eyebrows for acknowledgement.

 I heard an alarm. It was so loud; it irritated me. I forced myself to get up, in spite of the darkness looming the room, and turned off that stupid alarm. It was not very long before I realized it was all a dream. Or was it just a dream?

Let’s fast track to four months later. It was exactly three o’ clock in the afternoon. A visitor was asking for my big brother, said he had something important to tell him. “Dude, my girlfriend’s pregnant.”