CREATIVE NON-FICTION

MODULE 3
Discover

Before we will analyze the CNF elements, let us first familiarize ourselves with
its different elements.

Elements of a Non Fiction Piece

The Characters - these are the entities (people or animals) who are considered as the
participants in the action of the real-life event.

Methods of Characterization-

1.Direct-a character in the story is described by the author directly.

2. Indirect- a character who is described by the author through his/her personality,

action, physical appearance, thoughts, and speech.

Kinds of characters that can be portrayed

According to Roles Played

Major Characters

a. Protagonist- the main or central character. He is also called hero or

heroine (female) when they exemplify nobility and bravery.
b. Antagonist- the counterpart of the antagonist, or the villain.

Minor Characters

a. Confidant- the character to whom the main character reveals

his/her sentiments, hopes, and aspirations.
b. Foil- a character who portrays a contrasting quality to another character.
c. Stock type- a character who portrays national or social identity.

According to fullness of development

a. Flat- a character who is portrays just one or two traits.

b.Round- a character who is complicated or who has many sides.

According to changes undergone in the story

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 a. Static- a character who does not show any change--- he/she has the same
characteristics from the beginning up to the end.
b. Developing/ dynamic- a character who goes through changes in his/her
personality.

II. The Plot- a flow of events in a story. It is considered as the skeleton, the blueprint,
or the framework of the story.

Parts of the Plot

1. Exposition/ Introduction- introduces the major characters in the story and

introduces the setting of the story.
2. Complication/ Rising Action- the occurring events which occur that may lead to a
problem or conflict.

Kinds of Conflict:

a. External Conflict- the characters’ clash with the forces outside him/her like
natural occurrences such as calamities and social occurrences like fighting
an antagonist.
b. Internal Conflict- the characters’ clash within himself/herself. An example
of this is the memories that continuously haunt the character disabling him
to think or act well.
3. Climax – is also called the turning point of events. This is the peak of the interest
in a story where you as a reader or a viewer is very much excited as to
what may the result of this part be.
4. Resolution- is also called as the falling action where the problem or conflict is
resolved.
5. Conclusion or the end determines whether it is a success or a failure on the part
of the major characters.

III. Point of View (POV)- this answers the question “Who is narrating?”

Different Points of View:

1. First Person POV- the narrator is a character himself/herself in the story.

Your clue is the frequent use of personal pronouns I and my in the story.

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 2. Third Person POV- the narrator is outside the story. It is indicated by using
the pronouns he, she, and they.
3. Omniscient POV- the narrator knows all what the characters are thinking,
that is why he/she is called all-knowing.

IV. Allusion – this is a literary technique in which the subject is being refered to a
historical or literary figure.

Here are the examples:

*Juan is said to be the Jose Rizal in their class because of his exemplary
wit.(Meaning:
excellent)

* Maria is known as the Gabriela Silang of their community (Meaning: Maria is brave
because Gabriela Silang is known to be a brave Ilocano heroine)

V. Flashback- a literary technique in which there is a reminiscence or recollection

of
the past events. In short, it is going back to the past.

VI. Foreshadowing- a counterpart of flashback as it utilizes hints or clues indicative

of what will happen next in the story.

For example, in a story the writer uses a black cat which signifies that there
is something not-so-good to happen later on.

VII. Imagery- another technique in which the characters or even the setting or
anything in the story is described very well as if you are creating a mental image
on your mind. This is successfully done through the use of vivid adjectives.

VIII. Mood- the feeling or atmosphere the author makes for the reader.

IX. Moral-the call towards having a good behavior; this could be in the form of
a maxim, or a saying.

X. Suspense- the feeling of excitement, tension or even pressure by the reader as

he/she gets involved in the story to know the outcome of a particular conflict.
Oftentimes even when we watch movies, we get thrilled by how the story reveals
something about a character or an event—it might be the revelation of the
character as an illegitimate child or the like.

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XI. Symbol -the representation of a person, place or an object. For instance, in a
story, the diamond ring of the lady character might symbolize love, wealth or even
power.

XII. Theme - the main message of a story or a generalization about life. For
example, the theme of a story is: Perseverance gets you to your goal. A theme
should always contain a subject and a predicate.

XIII. Tone- the attitude of the author towards its subject. It could be joyful,
serious, humorous, angry, among others.

Aside from the elements of a creative non fiction text, we can also see figurative
languages that make the story more colorful and engaging to the readers. This is
also what we call as a figure of speech.

A figure of speech is the language that has beyond the common and literal meaning.
It makes the language more colorful and creative.

Here are the different figures of speech:

1. Simile- the comparison of two unlike things , but have some commonalities.
You can easily distinguish that it is a simile because of the use of the words as
or like.

Example: Silver-colored cars moved slowly down the road like fishes in the deep
ocean.

2. Metaphor- the comparison of two unlike things which have commonalities but
without the use of the words as or like.

Example: The youngest princess is the apple of the King’s eyes.

3. Personification- it personifies the inanimate objects, or it makes the inanimate

objects as if they are living things.

Example:The rock stubbornly refused to move an inch.

4. Apostrophe- addresses the dead as if he/she is still alive, the absent as if they
are present, and the inanimate as if they were persons.

Example: O Wind, if Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

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 5. Alliteration- the succeeding words in a line or a sentence which have the same
consonant sounds beginning.

Example: O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn’s being.” (Shelley’s “Ode
to The West Wind)

6. Hyperbole - the exaggeration of what is said.

Example:The grieving widow cried a bucket of tears.

7. Onomatopoeia - the use of words that mimic sounds.

Example: “Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horsehoofs ringing clear.”
(A. Noyes’ “The Highwayman”)
8. Antithesis - this is a contrast of words in a sentence to make it more ardent or
impactful to the readers.

Example: “To err is human; to forgive, divine.” (A. Pope’s “Epigrams”)

9. Paradox- a contradictory statement which is true.

Example: Life succeeds in that it seems to fail.

Oxymoron- a kind of paradox which has two opposite or contradictory terms in

a sentence.

Example: “Parting is such a sweet sorrow.” (William Shakespeare)

10. Metonymy- it is a word substitution by another term which has a similar

meaning.

Example: He spends the evening reading Shakespeare (book).

11. Synecdoche – it is a substitution of a part for a whole and a whole for a part.

Example: The captain shouted, “I need all hands on the deck.” (hands represents
all the persons or crew to help)

Huh! That is a very long one! I hope you’re still surviving, aren’t you? Now, let me
teach you how to analyze the different elements within a particular story.

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Here are some tips, guides, and questions which will serve as your roadmap towards
analyzing the different elements.

Character & Characterization

*What is the role of that character in the story?

*What does this character display? Is he good or

evil? How do you say? Give some textual proof.

* What does this character epitomize? Is

he/she a representation of hope or goodness?
How?

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 Setting Plot

Where is the setting of the story Do you think the sequence of

(time and place)? the story is logical?
What is the impact of the setting to What technique did the author
the over-all atmosphere or use to make the plot more
meaning of the story? creative? Did he use flashback or
foreshadowing? Was he
successful?
Point of View What happened in each of the
What is the point of view of the story?

How do you know that it was the POV Allusion

used? Cite textual references.
Do you see some allusions in the
What is the over-all effect of the type of story? If so, what are they?
POV used in the story? Is the story
more dramatic if you use such type of What is the significance of these
POV? allusions in the story?

Irony Mood

*What kind of irony is present in the *What is the mood of the story?
story?
*What words support the mood of
*What is the significance of this the story?
irony in the story?

Moral Suspense

*What is the moral of the story? *What suspense were you

able to spot in the story?
*How is the moral evident in the *How did you feel upon
story? reading it?
* What happened next?

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 Symbol Theme

*What are the symbols/symbolisms *What is the theme of the sto ry?
in the story?
*What evidences can you provide
*How were you able to know such to prove that such is the theme of
symbols/ symbols in the story? the story?

Tone
Figures of Speech
*What is the tone of the story that
*What are the figurative
you read?
languages that you were able to
*How did the different elements spot in the story?
converge to come up with the over-
*What do these figures of speech
all tone of the story?
mean?

*What is the impact of these to

the story?

If you were to contemplate on those guide questions for you to be able to analyze
the different elements within the story, I congratulate you! That only means that you
are now ready to move forward to the next part of this module.

Explore

Let’s now apply what you just learned from our discussion. Are you excited?
Let’s start!

You are going to read a Nonfiction story by Jhoanna Lynn Cruz which won 3 rd
Prize (Essay in English) at the Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature 2008.
After reading it, you are going to analyze the elements of the story through filling out the
necessary boxes with your own analyses.

Remember that you are doing an analysis, so you must use your Higher Order
Thinking Skills (H.O.T.S).

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 Sapay Koma

By Jhoanna Lynn Cruz

“I looked at Maria and she was lovely. She was tall…and in the darkened hall the
fragrance of her was like a morning when papayas are in bloom.” –Manuel Arguilla

On our first Valentine as a couple, he gave me a bowl of white nondescript flowers.

They had a distinctly sweet but faint scent. I had never been a fan of Valentine’s Day
nor of love like a red, red rose; but that day, I became a believer. He told me they were
papaya blossoms from his mother’s garden. At that moment, I knew I would one day
marry him. We had started dating only three months ago, but I knew I would be Maria
to his Leon. Why, he even had a younger brother the same age as Baldo! And even
though they didn’t live in Nagrebcan nor owned a carabao, the town of Itogon, Benguet
was remote enough for me. I have always enjoyed teaching the Arguilla story for its
subversive take on the role that one’s family plays in a marriage; but having been born
and raised in Pasay City, I had no idea what papaya blossoms smelled like. I imagined
that my new boyfriend had read the story in his Philippine literature class and meant
for me to recognize his gift as an allusion. In fact, I imagined we would defy societal
norms and prove that love conquers all. Instead of a “theme song,” our relationship had
a story to live up to. It was a disaster waiting to happen.

In the story, Leon brings his city-girl wife, Maria, home to meet his parents for
the first time. His surly father orchestrates several tests of Maria’s suitability through
Leon’s younger brother Baldo, who is quickly won over by her papaya blossom scent.
The first time I met his parents was on the wedding day of his eldest brother. By then,
we had been seeing each other discreetly for seven months, somehow knowing that no
one would approve of our relationship. In the midst of the beating of gongs and best
wishes, his Kankanaey father only wanted to know two things about me: where I was
from and what language I spoke. I gave the wrong answer on both points. I was a
Manileña and I couldn’t speak Ilocano yet, having only recently moved to Baguio City to
rebuild my life after becoming disillusioned with the institution that had once nurtured
my desire to excel. But no love lost, I was only their son’s “gayyem” (friend), after all. It
didn’t help that I was wearing a leopard print spaghetti-strapped dress, which exposed
the tattoo on my back. I reasoned that the Cordillera culture has a long tradition of body
art; so they should appreciate the significance of mine. None of us knew at that time
that I was already carrying a half-Igorot child in my womb (which, I imagined, somehow
made me an acceptable quarter -Igorot for the nonce).
Against better judgment, we decided to get married. We were under the influence of
hormones, of pregnancy, of the Catholic church, of Manuel Arguilla. We would have
gotten a quickie secret wedding if he were old enough, or I, wais enough; but by law we
needed his parents’ consent. Which they refused to give. For perfectly good reasons.
They could have said, “You shouldn’t marry because he is too young” (and you are
ten years older). Or “You shouldn’t marry because he is still studying” (and you were even

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his teacher). Or “You shouldn’t marry because he has a calling” (and you are snatching
him from God).

But instead his mother said, “We can’t give you permission because his brother
had just gotten married. In the theology of the Cordilleras, if siblings marry within the
same year, one of the marriages will fail. The community will blame us if we allow you
to marry.”

So I called my mother, who promptly came to my rescue, writing them a demand

letter based on a fallacy: “If your child were the woman in this situation, you would rush
to marry them!” I’m sure she was so eager to get me married off because she knew it was
a fluke.

What was most ridiculous (though I refused to see it at that time), was that I was
a self-proclaimed lesbian feminist. Despite all the tragic relationships I had had with
women, I still believed that it was worth fighting for the right of a woman to love another
woman. What business did I have getting married to a very young man? And for all the
wrong reasons. Must have been oxytocin overdose sponsored by the baby in my womb.
Or a planetary alignment exerting mysterious forces on my consciousness. Or, gasp—
Love!

Whatever it was, it came to pass. My mother didn’t have to bring my grandfather’s

rifle. But I had to do it all on my own: filing the license, finding the Judge, buying the
rings, reserving a restaurant, paying for everything. It was a good thing his parents
didn’t allow us to tell anybody about the marriage – that way I didn’t have to invite
anyone — which lessened my expenses. I had to understand that they had spent all
their savings for his brother’s recent wedding, where they had butchered eight pigs for
a traditional Igorot wedding feast. And after all, lest we forget, we were getting married
against their will. But hey, there they were, on hand to sign the marriage certificate in
the sala of the Honorable Judge Fernando Cabato of La Trinidad, Benguet.

The ceremony itself was quick – but peppered with omens. First, when the court
clerk asked for my mother-in- law’s name, I told her “Constancia” – because I figured
that was where her nickname “Connie” came from. When I asked my nervous groom, he
agreed. When the Judge confirmed the information, “Constancia” objected because her
name is actually “Conchita.” Judge Cabato made the correction and lectured us about
how important it is not to make errors in a legal document. Then, when it came to my
father-in-law’s name, the Judge refused to believe that “Johnny” was his real name.

When he asked for the rings, my groom gave him the little box, but when the
Judge opened it, it was empty. The elderly honorable Judge sat down and asked, “Is this
a prank?” It turned out that the rings had slipped out of the box and were floating in my
groom’s pants’ pocket.
When it was time for the wedding kiss, the Judge “got even” with us. He
pronounced us husband and wife and then said, “No more kissing, it’s obvious there’s

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a deposit in there!” Then he laughed hearty congratulations. I wonder now how many
times he has regaled a party crowd with our story.

At the reception in a Chinese restaurant, we occupied only one round table, with
only ten guests. The pancit canton was very good. We didn’t get any gifts, except for a
framed copy of 1 Corinthians 13: “Love is patient, love is kind… love does not keep a
record of wrongs…” It wasn’t the wedding of my dreams, but the whole event cost me
only Php 2,500. It was as do-it-yourself as DIY could get. That didn’t include the cost of
the wedding rings, for which I had to sacrifice some of my old gold jewelry. The irony of
it escaped me at the time; but for a modern woman on a budget, there w as no room for
finesse.
Thus we began our married life: full of contention, confusion, and concealment.

We couldn’t live together immediately; nor was I allowed to be seen in their little
neighborhood, where everyone knew everyone. A very pregnant stranger ambling up and
down the steep Upper Mangga Road would have been a conspicuous mystery. I
continued to live alone in my apartment, with my husband staying weekends, and I
pretended in school that my husband is from Manila. I’m not sure anyone actually
believed the drama, but I was bathing in first-baby-love, so I couldn’t care less.

My other Igorot friends assured me that when the baby is born, my in-laws would
finally accept me as the mother of their grandchild. But as I said, I couldn’t care less. I
was a Manila girl – I truly believed that our marriage would succeed even without his
parents’ approval of me. I was used to flouting norms and not needing anyone. And for
his part, my husband argued existentially that we should live by the integrity of our own
little family. You see, he was a Philosophy major under the tutelage of two young Jesuit-
educated instructors, who had come to the mountains from Manila to indulge their
fantasies about love and teaching (in that order). We, the migrant teachers, smiled at
each other in the College of Human Sciences silently acknowledging each other’s
foolishness; ignoring the fact that most of the other “native” faculty members looked
askance at the three of us.

When our daughter was born, we decided it was time to move into the family
home. In the innocent presence of the new half-Igorot baby, all would be forgiven. It
seemed the most practical thing to do. But I soon realized how naïve we were. We didn’t
take into account all the new wrongs that could be committed while sharing one
household.

Before I got married, I had a dog – a black mongrel I had named “Sapay Koma,”
which is Ilocano for “sana.” It is both a wish and a prayer – difficult to translate into
English, unless in context. Koma was my companion throughout the two years I had
lived in my dank, quirky apartment – the mute witness to the drama and dilemma
preceding my decision to marry. We took him along with us in our move, of course. But
the five other dogs in the new household didn’t like him all that much

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and they all raised such a nonstop racket, none of the humans could sleep, particularly
the newborn baby.

The neighbors offered to buy him for Php 500. Igorots like black dogs because the
meat is tastier. I was aghast. He was my dog, my loyal friend. If anyone was going to eat
him, it should be family. So my husband invited his friends over to put Koma out of his
misery.

I locked myself in our little bedroom with the baby, while they did it. But despite
the closed windows, I could still smell the burning hair and later, the meat cooking. The
putrid scent seemed to stick to my nose for days after, accusing me of betrayal. I wept
for Koma and for all that was dying in the fire – all the wishes that had no place in my
new life. I decided that this was the price for what Filipinos like to call
“paglagay sa tahimik.”

It took two hours for the meat to be tender enough to eat and when we all sat
down to dinner, I was glad they didn’t expect me to partake of the canine feast. Yet I did.
I took one mouthful, which I swallowed quickly without chewing, so I wouldn’t have to
relish the flavors. I may have had the stomach for it, but I didn’t have the heart. I only
wanted to show them that I respected their culture, even though in fact, I would never
belong. Also, I was hoping that this way, Koma would forgive me for having failed him,
for offering him as a sacrifice at the altar of my marriage. This way, we could be truly
together.

For weeks after, every time I overheard my husband reply “Aw, aw” to his father,
I would shiver at the prospect that we would have dog for dinner again. They had five
other dogs, after all. Luckily, it turned out that “aw” only means “yes” in their language,
Kankanaey. Besides, they only butcher dogs on very special occasions. Ordinarily, there
was always the savory chicken soup dish, Pinikpikan, which features a similar charred
skin aroma and taste. I was quite relieved to learn that his father did not require beating
the chicken to death with a stick before cooking, as is customary in the Igorot culture.

To this day, I have not been able to care for another dog. I do, however, have
another child. By the same man. Accidentally. It happened on Father’s Day, when we
thought having sex was a nice distraction from the confusion that arose from our
growing discontent with the marriage. When we found out about the pregnancy, we
agreed, albeit reluctantly, that it was Divine Intervention – a sign that we should keep
trying to save the marriage.

It was not just the food that was strange. I couldn’t understand why everyday,
some relatives would come over and expect to be fed. I had not been raised in an
extended family, and even within our nuclear family, we pretty much kept to ourselves.
In my mother’s house, we were trained to share through “one for you, one for me, then
stay out of my bag of goodies.” You can imagine how I felt the day they served my

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Gardenia whole wheat bread to the “relatives,” who promptly wiped it out, because my
peanut butter was delicious.

Not that I was being selfish. Aside from the fact that I didn’t have any bread for
breakfast the next day and the house being a ten-minute hike uphill plus ten kilometers
to downtown Baguio City, I fumed about not even being introduced to these relatives as
the wife of their son. They would introduce my daughter and her yaya, but I remained a
“phantom of delight” flitting about the house.

When I confronted my husband about the bread, he explained that in the Igorot
culture, everything belongs to the community. So, I took a permanent marker and wrote
my name on my next loaf of bread. It was a Saussurean signifier of sorts – and it was
unforgivable.

My father-in-law was a man of few words. In fact, my daughter was already two
years old when he decided it was time to acknowledge my existence and say something
to me. In the past, he would use an intermediary (usually my husband) if he wanted to
get information from me. It wasn’t too difficult because by this time we had already
moved to Manila and were living in my mother’s house – which was another disaster
and another story. It was Christmas Eve and we were spending the holidays in Baguio
City. He was watching a replay of a boxing match and I was playing with my daughter
in the living room. He asked, in Ilocano, “Do you have a VCD player at home?” I was so
shocked I couldn’t reply immediately. He repeated the question in Tagalog. It turned out
he was giving us the VCD player he had won in a barangay raffle. That night, as the
entire family sang their traditional “Merry Christmas To You” to the happy birthday
tune, I felt I was finally getting a fair chance to prove that I was worthy of being in their
cozy family.

In our six years together, I can think of more instances in which our separate
worlds collided and caused aftershocks in my marriage. But none of it rivaled what I
thought was the worst affront to me. My mother-in-law is Cancerian, like me, so her
house is a pictorial gallery of her children and their achievements. She had a wall with
enlarged and framed wedding photos of her children. Through the years, her exhibit
grew, and expectedly, I and my husband didn’t have a photo on this wall. I figured it
was because we had not had a church wedding. In fact, when we told them I was
pregnant with our second child, they requested that we hold a church wedding already.
They even offered to share the expense. But I preferred to save my money for the birth
of the baby. However, given my theater background, I once tried to convince my husband
to just rent a gown and tuxedo and then have our “wedding” photo taken so we’d finally
get on “The Wedding Wall.” But he has always been the more sensible half of our couple.

One day, though, a new picture was added to the wall. It was a studio photo of
his eldest sister, her American husband, and their baby boy. It wasn’t “The Wedding
Wall” anymore; it was now the “Our Children and their Acceptable Spouses” wall. It was

14
their version of the Saussurean signifier. The message was loud and clear – to me and
to other people who came to visit.

I wonder now why it so mattered to me to be on that wall. I guess I felt that after
all those years, we had been punished enough for defying the culture. Maybe I actually
believed in 1 Corinthians 13. Or perhaps I also needed to be reassured that I was indeed
happily married.

I confronted my husband about it and demanded that he finally stand up for me

and our family. And he did – he wrote his parents a letter that made his mother cry and
beat her breast. We each tried to explain our sides, finally coming to terms with the
bitter past. They told me that they are simple folk and didn’t mean to ostracize me; that
when they agreed to the marriage, they accepted me as part of the family, no matter
what. I believed them. I told them I was never going to be the woman they had probably
wanted for their son; but that I am a perfectly good woman, most of the time. We tried
to make amends. Our family picture was up on the wall within three days. Our kids
were quite pleased.

But it was too late. By then, my husband and I had been grappling with our own
issues for the past five years. He had gotten tired of my transgressions and sought solace
with his friends. After coming home late from another “Happy Hour” with them, I
screamed at him, “What happy hour? Nobody is allowed to be happy in this house!” It
was then we both finally realized that we had to face the truth about our marriage. By
the time his parents were willing to start over in our journey as a family, we had given
up on ours.

Most couples find breaking up hard to do. It was particularly hard for us because we
had to convince his parents that it was not their fault. On the other hand, I had to deal
with the fact that maybe my marriage did fail because of the “curse” of the superstition
“sukob sa taon” – that maybe we were wrong to insist on our choice. Yet on good days,
I am pretty sure it was a perfectly “no fault divorce,” if there ever was one.

“Kapag minamalas ka sa isang lugar, itawid mong dagat” goes the Filipino
proverb. Perhaps the salt in the sea would prevent the bad luck from following you. So
today I live with my two Igorot children in Davao City – fondly called “the promised land.”
Everyone is astounded when they learn that I had moved even though I knew only one
person here – who didn’t even promise me anything. I just wanted a chance to start over.
When we moved into this house, it had a small nipa hut in the backyard. The kids
enjoyed staying there during the sweltering hot Davao afternoons, especially when their
Daddy called them on the phone. But it was nearly falling apart and was host to a colony
of termites that had actually begun to invade the house as well. My generous
landlady soon decided it was time to tear down the structure. When I got home one day,
it was gone. All that was left was a dry and empty space in the yard; yet everything
looked brighter too. We missed the “payag;” but soon the grass crept into the emptiness

15
and we began to enjoy playing Frisbee in the space that opened up. It was a Derridean
denouement of sorts.
Last year, we spent our first Christmas without any family obligations. It was
liberating not to have to buy any gifts for nephews, cousins, in-laws. All the shopping I
did was for my children. I was determined to establish my own Christmas tradition with
them. I wanted to show them we were happy. I wanted them to grow up never having to
sing “Merry Christmas To You” ever again. I decided to cook paella for nochebuena as if
my life depended on it. I thought it was simply a matter of dumping all the ingredients
in the pan and letting it cook – like the aftermath of a failed marriage. The recipe was so
difficult I ended up crying hysterically, asking myself over and over, “what have I done?”
My kids embraced me and said, “Nanay, stop crying na.” But I couldn’t. It seemed as if
it was the first time I had let myself cry over what I had lost. I noticed though, that the
kids did not cry. Embarrassed with myself, I picked myself up from the river of snot that
was my bed and finished what I had set out to do – as I always have. It even looked
and tasted like paella, despite the burnt bottom. But next year we’ll just order take-out
from Sr. Pedro (Lechon Manok).

That night, my mother-in-law sent me a text message saying they are always
praying for us to get back together, especially for the children’s sake. I do not know how
to comfort her, except to keep saying that we had all done the best we could at the time;
that we are always trying to do the right thing; that despite what happened, or perhaps
because of it, we will always be a family. Of a kind. We are, after all, inextricably linked
by a timeless story and “sapay koma.”

Each of us in this story nurtures a secret wish to have done things differently –
to have been kinder, more understanding of each other’s quirks and shortcomings. But
it takes less energy to wish it forward. Sapay koma naimbag ti biagyodita — to hope that
your life there is good.

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