A series of deaths, like an unending blow of Sagada’s December cold winds (OK, Siberian winds if you wish), came before the big news. Pacquiao won. No, not that.
It’s Marky. He’s gone. So in between talks of burial dates of people who died in their sleep or jeepney or due to old age or some heart condition, I hear people saying Marky’s dead. I receive TXT messages confirming Marky’s death.
It seems like it’s too early for a goodbye. So maybe, when I look up at the December night sky, I should say, hello, Marky. How is it like to be home?