Isang Gabi

by Kim Naparan

It was the last 𝑠𝑖𝑚𝑏𝑎𝑛𝑔 𝑔𝑎𝑏𝑖.

Families rushed through the exit doors of the cathedral. Christmas songs began to play on loudspeakers, children ran towards the street where food stalls sold different 𝑘𝑎𝑘𝑎𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑠, and groups of teenagers caroled with their worn guitars, improvised maracas made out of 𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑠𝑎𝑛𝑠, and home-made tambourines out of empty milk cans.

Everyone wore their biggest smiles.

The atmosphere was filled with festivity and as we strolled down the road, our hands intertwined. You didn’t care that my hand was sweaty—you held it tight as we followed the scent of freshly made 𝑘𝑎𝑘𝑎𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑠.

You looked at me and raised both of your eyebrows. We were always excited to feast on 𝑝𝑢𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑢𝑚𝑏𝑜𝑛𝑔 and 𝑏𝑖𝑏𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑘𝑎, some staples during Christmas. Once we got home, we excitedly made 𝑡𝑠𝑜𝑘𝑜𝑙𝑎𝑡𝑒. No one watches their weight during the holidays, after all.

“Isama natin siya,” I chuckled, pointing at the sculpture of the big, chubby guy wearing a red and white suit.

To let the food go down, we wrapped the remaining gifts for the charity drive.

“Alam mo ba? Santa Claus’ real name is Saint Nicholas. He is the patron saint of children,” you said.

“Talaga?” I said in awe, losing count of how many boxes there were.

At least I had mastered the art of gift wrapping.

Ever since I was a child, I knew Santa Claus was not real. I never believed that some bearded white man went to people’s houses, putting gifts underneath the Christmas tree. History said that he was just a legend inspired by a Christian monk.

“I didn’t know that,” I grinned.

You looked so proud, beaming even, to know something that I did not.But because of you, I started to believe that, maybe, just maybe, Santa existed. There was no harm in believing, right?

After hours of wrapping, we were finally done, and the food was finally down in our bellies.

I watched you arrange the gifts below the tall tree. The tree was the centerpiece of the room; it was covered in bright and alternating lights, red poinsettias, colorful ornaments, topped by a bright Capiz star.

I remembered the time we fought over the color scheme of the tree. I wanted it to be blue and silver, our own, personal winter, but you quickly said no.

“We do not have winter here. Dapat green at red para Pinoy na Pinoy,” you insisted.

I gave in and you were right.

The classic colors of Christmas captured the essence of the festive and merry season. Filipino Christmas was indeed unique.

The practice of using green and red for Christmas dated back to the ancient Romans. In December, they would honor Saturn, their god of plenty, by decorating their homes with boughs of evergreen trees. Over time, the evergreen leaves and the red berries came to be known as the symbol of the Yuletide season.

“Is that so?” My lips slightly raised as I answered, putting the smaller gifts in front. I had to pretend that I was not aware…again.

“I hope the kids will be happy,” you uttered, moving next to me as we admired the work. Your eyes were filled with joy and hope.

I squeezed your left arm and leaned against you. “Don’t worry, I’m sure they will,” I said.

That was the last thing I told you. Everything would be great.

You pulled me close and gave me a kiss. I wanted it to last forever.

𝐾𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑔𝑔𝑔𝑔𝑔!

The alarm rang. It was four in the morning. I was shivering.

𝑇𝑜𝑑𝑎𝑦 was the last 𝑠𝑖𝑚𝑏𝑎𝑛𝑔 𝑔𝑎𝑏𝑖. It was exactly the same one years ago, but this was different…

It still hurts, 𝐽𝑜ℎ𝑛. It still hurts. But that’s what pain does until we learn how to move past it.

Yet, just like how seasons and holidays come and go, I’m thankful for our time together—a happiness that was short-lived, but one I’ll always cherish.

I take a step towards the 𝑏𝑖𝑏𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑘𝑎 stand.