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I urged him to come back home, but he had demurred, stating he’s good.

Did I search for him hankering forgiveness for the times I had rebelled?

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In contrast, a dream conjures up not an obvious reality, but a deeper one hidden by layers of sorrow, regrets and memories. He had run away, supposedly, but I found him at Philippine Rabbit’s Avenida terminal, secluded in a dark corner, his once-proud mien unrecognizably sad and meek, clutching a portfolio of his writings (he used to ride Rabbit on his visits when his work in Manila separated us as a family in Ilocos).

I’d agree if you tell me that these dreams sound feeble as nightmares—true because my nightmares, in truth, are waking horrors regarding their resting place, especially those of my grandparents.

Buried at her daughter’s family grave at the South Cemetery, my grandmother’s spirit must be languishing, instead of being at peace with her husband in the town cemetery of Bacarra.

I begged him for a reason, but he bid me goodbye, which devastated me long after waking up—I often forgot he had died for some time; he hasn’t returned since. Albano, one of the last mayors (presidente municipal) under the Philippine Commonwealth Government in Bacarra, Ilocos Norte, who appeared to the author, his granddaughter, in her early childhood. In my dreams, she merely flitted around the edges of casual daily scenes, a feeling of her just being there.

But once I sniffed her scent, which woke me in disbelief that she’s been gone for years.

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