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Entry No. 3

VI

I asked my mother if she ever read what was inside my great grandfather’s diary. Tucked inside an antique cabinet, it is not that hard to take away the bundles of rope that served as the journal’s lock. She said no and reasoned that that was the specific instruction of her mother. She then went on lecturing about the virtues of keeping a promise. She implied that she was given trust to take care of these family treasures and she does not intend to break the tradition. Indeed, volumes of diaries were safely gathered at our cabinet. The oldest of which was the diary of my mother’s great grandfather.

What I thought was an easy task turned out to be a grueling labor. After exhausting my thoughts on the lists that I could write, I started to scribble whatever it is I felt at that moment. From the entries one would see curses, and mostly the word ‘boring’ repeated more than a hundred times. There were even entries of incomprehensible words done by mixing up the letters of the alphabet.

I listed down the alphabet from A to Z, then Z to A. I had about five entries of that. I would often tell myself how I hated that task. I felt trapped by a tradition whose real value I don’t understand.

VII

Mina was not that pretty but she’s not that ugly either. I really don’t know what transformation came over me but it prompted something inside urging me to imply what I feel. I never listened to love songs, but suddenly, Barry Manilow started to sound cool. As ever man is supposed to act everytime they felt what I felt, I did all that. I gave her flowers. I tried as much as possible to see her everyday.

“Hey,” she said one day. “What’s that behind your back?”

“Oh, this,” and I laid out a book. “My mother reads this kind of stuff. Thought you might like it.”

It was a Mills and Boone pocketbook I bought at a discounted bookstore. I gave it to her.

“That’s sweet,” she said as she received it. “I’ll try to read it.”

“Mina,” I paused. “There’s a note inside you might want to read.”

“Oh,” she leafed through the pages and found my note written on a stationary I took from my sister’s collection. She browsed through the letter and smiled.

“Know what,” she winked. “With more practice, I bet you can become a great letter writer.”

With that, she took off by saying she has some catching up to do.

That incident gave me the courage to give her the ring wrapped around the petals of a rose, the very first poem I made for a girl, and those little things I never knew I could do. I told her it’s all about the friendship she gave me. Setting aside courage, I needed bravery to tell her my true feelings.

All in all, her reactions were all the same. She just said thank you. I didn’t mind. I was happy with that. I knew she liked me. It’s just that something, just something deep inside, is also telling me I wanted her to more than just like me.