À bientôt, mademoiselle!

Mlle Dy,

Je apprécié notre classe. Je savant tellement. J’aime savoir presque le langue Français. Merci pour étant patient avec nous. J’ai toujours desire à savoir Français. Vous êtes un bon professeur.

J’espère nous voyons vous encore. Dieu vous bénisse, mademoiselle!

Votre étudiant,

Yanna

Deuxième Entrée: Ma Ville Préférée

(Devoir pour français)

J'ai beaucoup de villes que j'aime, mais j'aime Cebu plus. Il s'agit parce que tous les membres de ma famille y vivent. J'habite et je suis née en Manille, mais mes parents sont du Cebu. J'ai beaucoup de relatifs à Cebu. Nous parlons cebuano dans notre maison.

En Cebu, la météo est similaire à Manille. Il fait chaud. Il y a deux saisons: l'été (très chaud!) et la saison des pluies.

J'adore aller au le festival Sinulog. Il est très coloré et bruyant! J'aime aussi manger l'alimentation de rue Cebu. Aussi, j'aime Cebu parce que c'est très près d'une plage! :D

Qui suis-je?

(Devoir pour français)

Qui suis-je? Je m'appelle Yanna Lopez et j'ai dix-sept ans. Je suis philippine. J'habite en 65 rue de Intimate, Pasig. J'ai une soeur. Je suis un étudiant de l'Université Ateneo de Manille et j'étudié le création littéraire. J'adore écrire et chanter. J'écris mes propres chansons. :) Mon rêve, c'est d'écrire pour une magazine.

Je parle anglais, tagalog, cebuano, et un peu français, mais je ne parle pas très bien tagalog.

Je peux compter de 1 à 100 en français! :D

Sudden Silence

(Written on 20th February 2011)

The sudden silence reminds me of fleeting. Fleeting both as a verb and as an adjective. The sudden silence envelopes me though it does not know what to do with me—should it haunt me or set me free through a night’s sleep?

It is morning, but no one is awake. It is half-past two. Soon, the sun will peer through the dark and I will lose the sudden silence. I want it because engulfed in it I can hear my every thought, but I fear it for the same reason. I fear that this silence will take me farther and deeper into uncharted territory than I could ever want my thoughts to take me.

In a few hours, I will be seventeen. Seventeen. Right now, I am sixteen, but in a matter of hours I will forever lose the right to say so. I am sixteen, I am sixteen, I am sixteen. I am wearing those words out while I can. I will never be sixteen again. I am truly grateful to God for the opportunity to have been able to say that I am sixteen, and that tomorrow I will be seventeen.

This is a unique sort of sudden silence—for me, at least. For some people, it isn’t. It is the sudden silence that takes over after I have been surrounded by a whirl of happy, noisy people that slowly say their goodnights then reluctantly trickle away.

I am struck by how sharp every emotion pierces me in the sudden silence. It is ironic because thoughts hit the most precise targets in the acute darkness of the night, as if the all-enveloping shadows give them sight. They see for themselves, feeling their way into the very seeping-holes that I try to hide in the daylight; little knots that come undone at night, when I am most vulnerable to everything.

I am so vulnerable right now. I ache. Deep sighs only relieve me momentarily; the weight on my shoulders comes back almost instantaneously.

This is why I should never be alone. I should never be alone because I am swallowed whole by my thoughts. There is too much space in my heart—it is space that will never ever stop growing. I am always in need of new, bright things to fill up this space. I am greedy for all that is truly and deeply beautiful. I ache for every kind of love in existence. The space in my heart will never stop growing; it will never stop striving to accommodate everything and everyone I let in. Perhaps it will grow so big one day that it, too, will swallow me whole. Perhaps it already has.

But I cannot stop the growing of my heart any more than I can stop it from beating. Both are rhythms that will only cease on the day I die.

Lord, won’t You fill me up to the brim? Then maybe the silence would not feel so sudden when it swiftly comes.

Sixteen has been sugar-sweet.

Clock

Tick-tock.

It's the sound of a clock. Counting down every second we live, everything we do and each precise second we do it.

It's the sound that kept you the day you were born, the sound that will merit even the day of your passing.

It's the sound that kept you from being late this morning, it's the sound that you hang on everytime the day is through.

It's the sound you live by, everyday, and you might not even know it.

In every single second holds a moment. A precious fragment in time that might have been forgotten, but whose taste is still on the tip of the mind's tongue. Wavering and threatening to fade, but still lingering. Still everlasting.

Your every tear lies on the ticking of the clock. Your every fall. Your every sorrow.

But so does your every triumph, your every flight, your every joy.

Like the slow, constant dripping of water is the rhythimic, unfailing pulse of the clock.

Everything happens in time. All we have to do is wait.

Sa Ugoy ng Duyan

...

Sana'y di magmaliw ang dati kong araw
Nang munti pang bata sa piling ni Nanay
Nais kong maulit ang awit ni Inang mahal
Awit ng pag-ibig nang ako'y nasa duyan…

Nakaupo ako sa duyan, kasama ang alaala ng aking ina. Pagod na pagod na ako sa kakaiyak, pagod na pagod na sa lahat ng bagay na may kinalaman sa pagkamatay. Naaalala ko parin ang kanyang sinabi sa akin.

“Huwag mo akong limutin, ngunit bitawan mo rin ako,” wika niya.

Pinunas ko ang mga luha na nahuhulog muli sa aking mga mata. Ngayon ay nagsisisi ako sa aking mga kalokohang ginawa noong araw, noong buhay pa si ina. Pinapagalitan niya ako noon, naiinis rin ako sa kanya. Ngumiti ako ng konti, inaalala ang kanyang mga sermon sa akin. Ngayon na wala na ang mga araw na iyon, hinahanap ko sila.

Umugoy ng kaunti ang duyan sa pagdaan ng hangin. Hanggang ngayon ay napapatulog ako sa boses ng aking ina, na dinadala ng bawat ugoy ng duyan, ng bawat ihip ng hangin. Napapatulog ako sa kanyang alaala, sa kanyang kanta…

Sa aking pagtulog na labis ang himbing
Ang bantay ko'y tala
Ang tanod ko'y bituin
Sa piling ni Nanay
Langit ang buhay
Puso kong may dusa
Sabik sa ugoy ng duyan mo, Inay
Sana narito ka Inay…

Sana narito ka, inay.


[based on a Filipino lullaby]

A Table for Two

He sits by himself at a table for two.

The uniformed waiter returns to his side and asks, "Would you like to go ahead and order, sir?"

The man has, after all, been waiting since seven o'clock -- almost half an hour.

"No, thank you," the man smiles. "I'll wait for her a while longer. How about some more coffee?"
"Certainly, sir."

The man sits, his clear blue eyes gazing straight through the flowered centerpiece. He fingers his napkin, allowing the sounds of light chatter, tinkling silverware, and mellow music to fill his mind. He is dressed in sport coat and tie. His dark brown hair is neatly combed, but one stray lock insists on dropping to his forehead. The scent of his cologne adds to his clean cut image. He is dressed up enough to make a companion feel important, respected, loved. Yet he is not so formal as to make one uncomfortable. It seems that he has taken every precaution to make others feel at ease with him.

Still, he sits alone.

The waiter returns to fill the man's coffee cup. "Is there anything else I can get for you, sir?"
"No, thank you."

The waiter remains standing at the table. Something tugs at his curiosity. "I don't mean to pry, but..." His voice trails off. This line of conversation could jeopardize his tip.

"Go ahead," the man encourages. His is strong, yet sensitive, inviting conversation.
"Why do you bother waiting for her?" the waiter finally blurts out. This man has been at the restaurant other evenings, always patiently alone.
Says the man quietly, "Because she needs me."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"Well, sir, no offense, but assuming that she needs you, she sure isn't acting much like it. She's stood you up three times just this week."
The man winces, and looks down at the table. "Yes, I know."
"Then why do you still come here and wait?"
"Cassie said that she would be here."
"She's said that before," the waiter protests. "I wouldn't put up with it. Why do you?"
Now the man looks up, smiles at the waiter, and says simply, "Because I love her."

The waiter walks away, wondering how one could love a girl who stands him up three times a week. The man must be crazy, he decides. Across the room, he turns to look at the man again. The man slowly pours cream into his coffee. He twirls his spoon between his fingers a few times before stirring sweetener into his cup. After staring for a moment into the liquid, the man brings the cup to his mouth and sips, silently watching those around him. He doesn't look crazy, the waiter admits. Maybe the girl has qualities that I don't know about. Or maybe the man's love is stronger than most. The waiter shakes himself out of his musings to take an order from a party of five.

The man watches the waiter, wonders if he's ever been stood up. The man has, many times. But he still can't get used to it. Each time, it hurts. He's looked forward to this evening all day. He has many things, exciting things, to tell Cassie. But, more importantly, he wants to hear Cassie's voice. He wants her to tell him all about her day, her triumphs, her defeats....anything, really. He has tried so many times to show Cassie how much he loves her. He'd just like to know that she cares for him, too. He sips sporadically at the coffee, and loses himself in thought, knowing that Cassie is late, but still hoping that she will arrive.

The clock says nine-thirty when the waiter returns to the man's table. "Is there anything I can get for you?"
The still empty chair stabs at the man. "No, I think that will be all for tonight. May I have the check please?"
"Yes, sir."
When the waiter leaves, the man picks up the check. He pulls out his wallet and signs. He has enough money to have given Cassie a feast. But he takes out only enough to pay for his five cups of coffee and the tip. Why do you do this, Cassie, his mind cries as he gets up from the table.

"Good-bye," the waiter says, as the man walks towards the door.
"Good night. Thank you for your service."
"You're welcome, sir," says the waiter softly, for he sees the hurt in the man's eyes that his smile doesn't hide.

The man passes a laughing young couple on his way out, and his eyes glisten as he thinks of the good time he and Cassie could have had. He stops at the front and makes reservations for tomorrow. Maybe Cassie will be able to make it, he thinks.

"Seven o'clock tomorrow for party of two?" the hostess confirms.
"That's right," the man replies.
"Do you think she'll come??" asks the hostess. She doesn't mean to be rude, but she has watched the man many times alone at his table for two.

"Someday, yes. And I will be waiting for her." The man buttons his overcoat and walks out of the restaurant, alone. His shoulders are hunched, but through the windows the hostess can only guess whether they are hunched against the wind or against the man's hurt.

As the man turns toward home, Cassie turns into bed. She is tired after an evening out with friends. As she reaches toward her night stand to set the alarm, she sees the note that she scribbled to herself last night.

"7:00," it says. "Spend some time in prayer." Darn, she thinks. She forgot again. She feels a twinge of guilt, but quickly pushes it aside. She needed that time with her friends. And now she needs her sleep. She can pray tomorrow night. Jesus will forgive her.

And she's sure he doesn't mind.