Our parents had nine children born in three provinces – one in Bohol, one in Cotabato and seven in Lanao del Norte. Of the nine children, only seven had reached adulthood. Bonifacio was just a toddler when he died of food poisoning. Concepcion was four years old when she died of lockjaw. Both deaths were very painful to our parents and the grief they suffered had left empty hollows in their hearts and permanent wrinkles on their faces.
Being a child myself, I was spared the sad memories of Bonifacio’s demise. However, it was different with my sister Concepcion. Her sudden death was a watershed event, a grievous experience for me, then fourteen years old, and the trauma stayed with me for a long time. It took days for me to accept that my younger sister had really died and had forever left us. How I wished, then, that she was still alive. For many years, I dreamed of her death.
Nobody blamed me for the accident that resulted to my sister’s demise, but the burden of guilt lingered within me for a long time. It did not help that in my dreams Concepcion always wore that angelic smile that fascinated us when she was still alive.
Homemade toy cars we called tarak-tarak, were favorite playthings during our childhood. When in vogue, most children had one or two to proudly trot around by pulling the chord attached to them. We made these impoverished toy cars out of wood or tin cans or a combination of both. For tires, we used carved wood or tin caps of bottled soft drinks and beverages. As the eldest, I had assembled toy cars for my younger siblings. On that portentous day, I was making one for Concepcion. She hovered about, watching my toil with silent interest, when she accidentally stepped on the nail protruding from the recycled lumber I was working on. I was reaching for the saw when it happened. The rusty nail pierced deep in her foot. There was not much blood since the wound opening on her sole was small. I treated the wound with tincture of iodine. The wound healed after a few days so there was no cause for concern. However, unknown to us, the anaerobic bacteria deep inside my sister’s foot was silently spreading its deadly poison. Concepcion died of tetanus not long afterwards.
Her sudden death became doubly tragic since my parents and I were not around when it happened. It was a weekend and we were out in our cornfield at the highland village of Mentering, eight kilometers away. It was late in the afternoon and we were on the last stretch on our way home when unexpectedly, Silvestre, who was left home, came to meet us. He was limping due to his swollen and suppurated foot. Days ago, the upside of his left foot was impaled by a coconut midrib. With teary eyes, he informed us that Concepcion died.
The catastrophic news was so surreal that I convinced myself that everything was only a dream – Inting’s sad tidings, the shadows of the coconuts cast by the mellowing sun, and the cool afternoon breeze that diluted the sultry air. I was walking on air as we proceeded home half running, my bare feet unfeeling of the rough surface of the weathered and hoof-puckered road. But the moment of truth foreclosed whatever threads of self-denial I felt when I beheld my dead sister. She gasped her last breath with her terrified eyes seeking vainly for our intimate faces. She died on June 1, 1959, two months short of her fifth year. From our neighbors’ account, she had lockjaw and died after three hours of off and on struggles. We were shocked because her death was unexpected. Concepcion was still asleep and appeared well when we left at dawn. Now, after barely nine hours, she lay lifeless on the buri palm mat. I was not even there when she fought for her dear life. Our neighbors ministered to her but nobody thought of calling a doctor or of bringing her to the hospital.
