The Paints Have Not Dried Up

(Annie and Amah, the only sister and mother of my husband, respectively, were inseparable in life. When Annie died, nobody was surprised when Amah followed one month later.)

April 5, 2006: Yesterday, after over two years, I took out my brushes, dusted them well, and with dread, I slowly uncapped my paints to see whether they have dried up.

They haven’t!

Has it been that long, when I started painting my two white daisies, shortly after Annie's sudden death in February 2004?

I took my apron out of a plastic bag and what do you know, I found a receipt and P390, the change for a can of white latex paint I had bought for my two daisies.

I had wanted an image that would show Annie’s and Amah’s relationship—one that interconnected and enmeshed—the edges blurred, not seeing where one ended and the other begun, as though they were one from bud to full bloom.

They were together from the day Annie was born and there was not a day they were apart, except when Annie was still going to school and working as an executive secretary at Far East Bank.  Annie wanted to see to Amah’s every need, be by her side, for better or for worse and so, turning away from her own future, she quit her job and took care of Amah full time. It was a mother-daughter relationship I was privileged to see up close, for real, not from some written fiction, once in my lifetime.

But life isn't what we think it ought to be. Annie, the caregiver, went ahead of her "ward" who was, predictably and rightfully, inconsolable. Although nobody verbalized it, people knew that Amah couldn't live without Annie. She would tell everyone she wanted to go and join her only daughter. She did—exactly 33 days later.

Nothing could hold her back. Not even our constant affirmation of love or Tony’s mock admonition, “I am your child, too!”

Two white daisies—on a canvas. I was tippling some highlights and squiggling shadows when from Amah’s room came a series of gasps. I dropped my brushes and rushed her to the hospital, where we lost her a few hours later.

I had not touched the painting since. I could not complete it because the pain and the hole they left in our lives were not yet behind me. There were so many “what ifs,” things within my control that could have been done to make them stay longer and live a little happier.

The unfinished canvas hung by the grills in the terrace, a daily reminder of “what ifs” and the onus of grief and guilt.

More than two years now, and by God’s amazing grace, the pain has dulled and things have moved along.

My computer, either a lemon or the exact worth of my scrimping (not Intel inside), had been almost useless the past months. Without the air conditioning on, it hung! It did not act up, it just stopped like an offended, onion-skinned being who gave you the silent treatment.

Not a way for an author to go. And so while I was away on a book talk in Cebu I decided to have my computer see the tech doctor. A bad time, too, because my in-house IT, JC, was up in Baguio and won’t be back for another three weeks. But if I postponed it one more time, I’d never be able to meet deadlines.

It cost me P7,500 and a week of non-writing, but it gave me the chance to look into my paints and brushes once again!

April 5, 2006, I speckled and splashed over the daisies and in four hours, at the edge of the canvas I signed my name.

The joy of painting other canvases was mine for one day, two days, three days, going on fourth when my computer materialized, now in tip-top shape.

So on to writing, which takes precedence over painting.

I believe—through the books I have written and the book talks I have been invited to—that writing is my assignment from above and I need, I want, to spend my time on it, put everything on hold and then immerse in it my whole mind and soul.

“What’s for Breakfast?3” has been scheduled for launching in November this year. Which means, I need to complete the manuscripts by end August. That doesn’t give me very much time. So now I have to shelve my brushes and paints once again, but not for the same reason I did more than two years ago.

I praise and thank God for the gifts of painting and writing (a degree higher in the joy thermostat) for us to enjoy.

The paints will not dry up—as I intend to uncap them every now and then when the writing mind and heart need replenishing.