Hidden Pasture

On that field of Tayug, Pangasinan, there were thick beds of lush greens that attracted every passer by to lay their backs on and feel free to enjoy the cushion of these blessed grasses of the north. There were Maya birds perching and laying their eggs on the top of occasional acacias that stood like frozen human beings glued on the colossal green carpet. Near the center point of the breathtaking horizon, one of the small trees has fallen on its side, richly coated by dark sap that was like mud dried after a strong storm since three days ago. A teenager’s decomposing remain corrupted beyond peaceful recognition, missing for more than 3 days. His name was Joseph.

Before the typhoon Trining struck Region I, the house was bothered since my brother hadn’t come home past eleven that evening. My mother couldn’t help from being worried. She asked distant neighbors at the middle of their sleep about his last whereabouts. She was once informed that one of his friends, kuya Lito, had seen my brother flirting with a girl at the nearby basketball court one o’clock in the afternoon. And beside that, no one had seen him again.

A sullen morning drizzled with the news that a boy was missing. Baranggay tanods started visiting someone’s house here and there, asking all the people we knew, all for receiving Wala po eh at the end. I could just imagine their stares and mumblings as they closed their doors. On the evening that came, another strong rain began to fall. The searched had officially stopped.

I was five then; so young, but not young enough not to feel the common despair even just after a very short period of time that he was gone. I knew he must be dead; otherwise he must have shown himself to prove that he hadn’t been missing at all. But he didn’t.

Heavy rain went unbridled for two full days, and there was still no brother to apologize for the big trouble.

After the stormy days passed, my parents felt better by the thought that they could search again with a refreshing hope. And on the first quarter of that new day, the sky clear, sun bright, roads wet; a body was found decomposing at the bosom of an uninhabited field, far from civilization…far from help. There was a rumor that he was sexually harassed by some drunken bystanders before murdering him by a huge boulder of concrete several times against his head. He was sixteen then, and Joseph was dead.

Twelve years later, I found my self wondering. What would he look like if he hadn’t been killed? He must be approaching 30, he must be married and working for his children. He could be happy.

It was ironic because I always looked up to him being my eldest sibling. Now, I am seventeen, a year older than he was then. A year of experience ahead, a year of thrash that doesn’t count. A year apart that didn’t feel relevant. I was just too young to remember so much of the things while he was still alive. But since that day that he was found, all of the distant memories then have seem to be locked up here like a permanent scar- a place  where nothing dwells but him. He is the man in the hidden pasture, and I saw him smiled.