I ran as fast as my spindly legs could take me. When I got to the public health clinic, I was not allowed in and so I ran around the back and peered into a window. It was Remon alright. He was splattered on a table like a broken rag doll, writhing in pain as three people were pulling on his arm. They were hurting him. Something didn’t look right, too-- Remon’s elbow is on the wrong side. I shouted something. I don’t remember exactly what. I don’t remember much after that. But I remember running one more time, this time to our apartment-- maybe more than six city blocks away from where we were. My lungs have shut down by the time I reached it. Out of breath and blue in the face, I tried to tell mother what had happened. But, no words came out. I was gasping but was not taking in enough air to fill my lungs. Laughably, mother first thought it was me who was in trouble-- like I was having a heart attack or something. It was just my asthma acting up again. Later that night, I still had a hard time breathing; I slept sitting on a chair with my head on the dining table.
I later learned that Remon was playing basketball, as he usually did after school, when it happened. Somebody deliberately went under him as he jumped to make him fall in a bad way. Unlike me, Remon was quite good at playing basketball and maybe for some it was enough reason to hurt him. An elder brother was good at it, too. I guess the talent and ability to play good basketball skipped passed me. If there is anything I was good at it's catching cold along with other air borne viruses.
I was actually surprised Remon was hurt in the first place. I genuinely believed then that Remon was impervious to pain. He was built like a tank with a body mass twice as mine. When we are together, people insisted I was the younger sibling. I was actually a year older. I was maybe eight then-- but I looked like a scrawny six-year old.
I remember the times I was asked to serve, as an altar boy, in early morning Church services. Our parish priest, the Rev. Fr. Kutcher, SVD, required that an older brother should accompany me. I brought Remon along-- who, by the way, never complained even if it meant waking up at the break of dawn. After each Mass, we shared snacks-- which the shops fronting the Church: the Frisco Bakery or the Mandolin Variety Store, provided for free. Of course, I was entitled only to one snack-- a bottle of Choco Vim and a piece of cake or pastry, from either of the two shops. But, I was so sure then that nobody would mind if I get a set of snack from each of the two shops. After all, I have “Kuya” Remon with me. And, he definitely deserved a snack, too.
We took different paths as we grew older-- maybe even grew apart, but I know that even as we seldom shared snacks as we did when we were young boys a long, long time ago, Remon, had stood up and spoken for me in times when everyone, everything was against me. Remon stood tall as my “Kuya” whenever I needed one. Yes, even if it’s not a Sunday.
Salamat Remon.
