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