I call him ninong (godfather) but he is not my ninong, he’s my parent’s ninong.  My father told me that when I’m still a baby he’d borrow me from there to baby-sit.

 

He went to work overseas and when he came back I am already a college graduate struggling to find myself a niche in the world.

 

He’s always there by his house gate. 

 

And I would always greet him.  Good morning ninong or good evening ninong & he would always nod & smile and would raise his hands.

 

Last night he’s not there by his house’s gate.

 

What’s in there are people.  A lot of people sitting in his chair.  With solemn faces.

 

He died.

 

He is dead.

 

And now the only greeting that I can give him is goodbye ninong.

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