REMEMBERING DAD

By Dr Ella Masamayor

With every death I pronounce, I remember Dad’s death. I remember the blue dress I wore, his white-walled hospital room, his big throne-like hospital bed, eating lechon manok. Dad told me I was a queen.

Dad collapsed shortly after, and never woke up again.

Back then, I did not understand death, but I understood love.

Dr Ella Masamayor

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THE CALL

By Dr. Bill Ramos

It was close to midnight. I got a call from the helper, crying on the other side, that you are not well. I felt that it was something serious, something dreadful. With Eve, we rushed to your place. You were slumped lifeless on the couch. Together with the helper, I carried you to your bed.

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