Fernando

Keana Aguila Labra

2011. Fernando was where we danced with our heels above the sand. A sixteen hour flight with jet lag as we licked the 6am sun. This is where it rises. Where he rises. Six hours before the mysterious Fernando. An hour acquainted with Fernando. Your chin raised, proudly. I did not understand it then, nor did I care. There was only us and our hands and this big house. Buko juice and lechon and mouths only in jovial activity. I married my toes into this land of his and smiled directly at this sun.

2006. Fernando was my Ate’s go-to karaoke song. She, sixteen, too young for ABBA, never been in love, yet she sang heart-broken. She sang polished. She sang as if to say, here we are, my love, how did we make it, Fernando? Bugles and rifles and old men with gray hair flooded my imagination. Fernando. Fernando. I was sure Ate cried the first time she sang Fernando. I didn’t know I was clutching my chest until I did.

2018. The same chin once upturned and proud is now drooping. His whiskers are no longer brown. His arms know only chairs from the kitchen to the recliner where he sleeps. I ask him where he’s from. Fernando. I beg him to remember the shade and humidity. He is slower to respond. His eyes wide, wanting for rest, but I’m not ready to let go. I plead with him to come back to San Fernando, Cebu.

2021. And he is gone. One hands me a tissue. Another says it’s not about what we deserve. But what of Fernando? San Fernando, where there are ferns and the dirt road? Where is the carsickness and white van and linked arms? Where is the orange laughter? Close your eyes. Fernando. Open your eyes. Fernando. I spell Fernando with my finger onto palm. There are no saints. I can’t remember if I breathed. I whisper Fernando as they lower him into the ground.