I admit. I have been looking at you, nay, staring, ogling even. I just couldn't keep my eyes off your beautiful face. You remind me of no one. Not Piolo, not Alfie Anido, not Brad Pitt. Your face is just perfectly chiseled that it's almost impossible to describe it. Ok, I am exaggerating. But for me, you've got a face that would make me forget that I had a bad morning, that would make me remember that there's always sunshine after the rain.
I melt. You don't look straight to me but I know you're looking, you're noticing my stare. This morning, you're seated beside me. I can feel everything. Your breath. Your skin. Your 'balahibo'. Your sideways stare. I was blatantly staring back. I was obviously hyperventilating. I had to pray ten Hail Mary's to temper myself, to control my growing desire to hold your hand or to pretend sleeping and lean to your right shoulder. I was not successful. I didn't grab your hand but yes, I ran my fingers to your forearm. I didn't just lean my head to your shoulder, instead, I silently kissed it. I know you noticed. I know you knew. I heard your deep sigh. I felt your heavy breathing, as if anticipating something else or something more. I thought I can do more. But that's enough hooray for the day.
I give in. I promised to be good, to give up 'desiring'. I am used to just looking, to staring, to ogling. I am used to just admiring. You must be Michaelangelo's inspiration, you must be a Greek god, you must be an Olympian warrior, you must be an apparition. But the admiring went to a different level when I realized you knew I was looking, staring and ogling. You started to flirt with your half-smile. You started to seduce. You started to make me feel weak, melted and totally girly.
I accept. This morning, both us breathing like we were running in a treadmill, you made an invitation, A proposal perhaps. I don't know. But whatever it is, I accepted. I got your number, thank you. I was surprised by your move. You opened your Samsung phone and showed me your name and contact info. I texted you as soon as I had the chance and you swiftly texted back.
I realize. You are a real estate consultant and you're selling me a piece of land in Ortigas. But I realized, all I wanted was just a piece of meat. I passed. Sorry.
Geez, I had to be 44 before I could become a real uncle.
I am used to be called Kuya, Sir, Pare, Ninong and yes, Mama Nich. Now that you’re coming real
soon, I am feverish to the notion that somebody will finally call me Tito.
Your parents have a name for you already --- Nathaniel.
Indeed, you are an angel, you will be our angel. We are deciding which nick
would suit an angel like you. Nate or Nathan? But before you could be
christened or called by different names or terms of endearment, let me, your
loving Tito, call you My Neph.
My Neph, everyone is agog by your coming out. Excitement
is an understatement of what we feel in our hearts.
Tita Elvie bought a baby drawer for you. Tita Elvie, as
you will know, is a sister of Mama and our doting tagapag-alaga. All of us were
reared by her; but it was your father, Benedick, our bunso, who became her
favorite. In return, Benedick calls her Mommy Vie. So you, My Neph, would call
Tita Elvie, Mommy Lola.
Tita Flor bought a
lot of baby items to fill that drawer. Those cute baby dresses, all in blue!
Diapers, blankets, and pillows and many more. Tito Gerry promised that he will
buy a crib for you, I am sure Tito Hernan will match that with a stroller
perhaps. Tita Celia has been checking on your Mom, calling night and day from
Chicago. Wala pa ba? Hindi pa nangnaganak
si Myles? And Tito Junior, despite his speech impairment due to a massive
stroke, is already practicing to mumble your name.
And us, your Papa Benedick’s brothers? We just couldn’t
hide or contain it. This is really it. Finally. A baby. A nephew. Wow. The
whole idea boggles us. The miracle of life is so awesome. Our bunso will soon
become a father. Soon, a tiny tot will whisper to us that word: Tito. Oh Man, that would be the sweetest
name, that would be a lovely music to our ears! Say it again, Tito.
So My Neph, come out na. Please. I am already crying
typing this. And I can imagine the deluge of tears when you finally cry out
loud to announce to the whole world that you’re finally here. Those will be
tears of joy, of triumph, of celebration, of appreciation, of thanksgiving, of
LOVE.
Geez, I am already 44 and it’s time I stopped being coy.
And how young
are you? Young enough to be my son.
Contrary to a romanticized belief, age does
matter. However, I believe our generation gap will work both ways,
positively and negatively. My experience, your exuberance. My maturity, your
vitality. My patience, your impertinence. And so on and so forth. Like yin and
yang, our age gap will be filled by itself to create balance and harmony. There
will be contradictions, there will be clashes considering our differences ---
but at the end of the day, there will be love and that’s all that really matters.
Aside from God, my family and some well-meaning friends
--- I have never spoken these words to anybody. Oh yeah perhaps to Simon Atkins
or Joseph Yeo, or even to Cha Cruz or Michelle Gumabao, or to Anne Curtis or
Angel Locsin. But save for God, my family and well-meaning friends, no individual was really worth these three little big words. And I
am saying them now, to you and to you alone. I love you.
With those words comes my total package. Me, myself and
I. I am not going to change anything for you. Perhaps, my routines will do change.
My schedule will be damned I know and my body clock will always be hyperactive.
But I will still be me.
Neither would I ask you to change anything, save for that
hair perhaps? I love the way you rock my world. I love the way you make me feel
not like a natural woman but like my natural self. I love the way you make me
comfortable about myself and about us, together. For the first in my life and I
had to be 44 to be able to do this, I can walk holding hands with a guy. And I
thank the heavens that right hand belongs to you.
I cannot promise you anything; you know, materials
things and all. I cannot buy you that Kobe VII. I cannot make you ride in a
luxury car. I cannot treat you in an expensive restaurant. I cannot lend you
money. I cannot support your family. I cannot be your sugar daddy. All I can be
is to be me. All I can give is myself. And that means everything and every
piece of me.
I can promise you that I will dance with you in the
rain. I promise that I will cry with you when you’re in pain. I promise that I
will listen to your out-of-tune songs and to your never-ending stories. I
promise to laugh at your antics and outdated knock-knock jokes. I promise to be
with you in your most trying times. I promise to be away from you if you needed time to be alone. I promise to give you space and I will respect that. I will
respect also your own beliefs, your own set of values, choices and preferences
[Ok, no pork when we dine together]. Most of all, I will respect you being you.
Lastly, I promise not to be perfect and to be a perfectionist.
I have lost a lot of opportunities to love and be loved for trying to be
perfect, for setting out perfect ideals. But that didn't mean you are not perfect. As a matter of fact, you are the perfect guy I
have been praying for. And you even came at perfect time and place. But let us
just stop there. Let us not try to be perfect for each other. We are not and we
will never be. Love by itself is a continuous perfection. It cannot be perfect
at one single millisecond.
Geez, I am already 44 and old enough to be your daddy;
still I would have the gall and confidence to say all these things to you.
