Six minutes and fifty-nine seconds

 by Thea Maristelle

[ Part 1: one minute has passed]

One minute has already passed and it's already 11:54pm. There's something dreadful in the night, a haunting restlessness that steals my slumber. It’s that sudden realization—the moment we become aware of something lost. What terrifies me most is the sudden rush, when I’m adrift in dreams, only to awaken, deafened by the whispers of what once was. Was it the tang of sour Inun-unan my mother made that danced upon my tongue that haunted me? Or was it the mere realization of my mere powerlessness against these relentless flashbacks, leaving me to confront the ache of surrendering what can never return? 

I think there's something special in a time a person forgets —an almost holy pause, suspended between presence and oblivion. The mind trembles, neurons stirring in quiet urgency, as if each pulse resists the forgetting. I have heard that the mind remains active in the seven minutes before death, urging us to remember all that is most significant. 

And then, there’s that peculiar mercy in those final seven minutes, where memory loosens its grip. Is it not a mercy, then, perhaps Divinity, that grants us the knowledge of ourselves even as we are consumed by time’s relentless march?

I still remember you Cherry. You're still there right? We satiate on memories after all.

[Part 2: two minutes have passed]

In a morning that seemed so boringly dry, two minutes had passed and I feared heat would consume me, leaving me to hang in one of my lola’s wooden chairs. She had been searching for this white baro't saya ever since I arrived. My lola, as serene as the church's melodious hymns, sat on the cool floor, diligently ironing the delicate white baro't saya she had finally found. A white baro't saya, she said she had prepared for herself when the time comes. My lips, dry and cracked, yearned  to resist what she said, only for my words to exhausts in the air. 

“Kini nga puti nga bestida,” my lola said, “mao ni ang akong ihatag kang Cherry,”  as they called and told my grandmother she doesn't have one yet. 

"Mo adto na ta day, ato ning ihatod sa morgue", my lola said as I packed the white baro't saya.

Hey, Cherry, I never told my grandmother, but I was afraid of you. I wasn’t afraid of you when you were here; I was afraid of seeing you lying there, unconscious. You were breathing in my lola's words as she told me that last night, you had wanted to eat a slice of cake.

[Part 3: three minutes have passed]

We got inside the facility of the hospital, as the guard instructed us the way to the morgue. I believed it was a left turn, then a right, until three minutes had slipped away.  I heard the wails in his eyes, as this boy, his eyes almost lifeless, sat on the dirt. 

As we hurried down the aisle, we noticed a woman, furious and furiously dialing on her cellphone. The woman who had been furiously dialing on her phone now gently took my grandmother’s hand, lifting it toward her forehead. "Maayo kay naa ka diri, Ma," the woman said to my lola. "Dili man gyud daw nila ihatag ang lawas ni Cherry, Ma," she added, her voice tense.

“Asa diay gadako bataa, Ineng?" my lola asked authoritatively. This woman, furiously tapping on her phone, was the one my lola had spoken of last night—Aunt Ineng. She is the daughter of my lola's brother, Hernan. One of the children my lola had promised, at her brother's grave, to look after. 

Hernan, my lola told me, was her older brother. At his funeral, she wept as she looked upon flowers wrapped in sashes bearing names she didn’t recognize. It struck her then, painfully, that none of them truly knew Hernan, just as they would never understand the memories bound between them. For while they sent bouquets, only she and Hernan knew the hidden patch where wild kangkong grew—a marshy corner near a pool of water. Surrounded by blooms, she felt more alone than ever, thinking how these people would never know the weight of the mornings they spent gathering those greens, the small scar she bore from a cut on her leg, a reminder of the times they’d harvested just enough to feed their mother's pigs. Grief carried her to his coffin, and there, she vowed to care for his children in his place. That, she later explained to me, was why Ineng calls her “Ma”.

Hey, Cherry, I saw you there, your tan skin melding into the bed. Though we had only met once, my tears filled my eyes, for I knew you had felt the cosmos stir within you as you were gently returned to the universe.

[Part 4: four minutes have passed]

Ineng glanced to her left, her eyes uneasy, yet she continued to meet my lola's gaze. Her eyes kept darting to the left as she explained, "Didto man ni sa ilaha. Lahi man ug mama kanang Tadong, pero gadako na sila sa akoa sauna. Gisustinahan nako na si Cherry," Ineng stated, still shaking. It suddenly occurred to me that the boy we had seen four minutes ago, sitting on the dirt, was Tadong— Cherry's half-brother, the one who refused to let Cherry’s body be in Ineng’s care for the vigil.

“Wala man gud na siyay respeto sa akoa. Gihatagan man ko ug warrant nga dili ko kaduol nila Cherry dugay na,” Ineng said, her hands trembling as her gaze dropped to the floor. Her shoulders hunched as her hands clenched inside the pockets of her pants, twisting the fabric as if trying to grip the weight of her responsibility. 

"Lahi man na iyang gipang-storya," Ineng said, still trembling as she recounted how the boy had threatened her a while ago. She added that she would fight back if he ever dared to confront her again.

Hey, Cherry, My lola told me that we had met years ago when I was 10 and you were just an 8-year-old girl, ever so shy with your tan skin. We had never spoken to each other. Now that I'm in my 20s, I think I would've offered a gentle introduction. Forgive me, Cherry; I was but a timid heart. It must have been difficult to hear this clamor even in your slumber. I pray for you.

[Part 5: five minutes have passed]

“Dili man ta pagawason niya,” Ineng said “Kabalo gyud ka, Ma, giunsa nako pag-atiman aning mga bataa.” 

“Dili ta mangisog kay kabalo ta nga delikado ang bata, wala ta kabalo kung unsay buhaton niya”, my lola warned her, having heard whispers that Tadong was part of a dangerous fraternity. 

When I arrived, I anticipated a dreary ambience, but instead, it felt vengeful. I expected to see tears streaming down her mother's face; after all, it was only this morning that her child had died. I wondered how she could speak of all these other problems while her daughter's corpse lay rotting. 

Tadong who was now near the bench replied, “Giunsa na nimo pag-atiman? Wala gyud kay gihatag masking piso. Kami ang mo kuha sa lawas; kabalo mi unsa nimo gi-maltrato ang among amahan.” He was about to throw a punch when the people in the standby area calmed him down. 

Five minutes passed, and my lola decided to speak to Tadong. He told her that he had great respect for her and only wanted what was best for Cherry. “Kay kabalo ko nga dili siya mahimutang sa balay sa iyang inahan,” Tadong said. He said that in the area where he lives now, there are plenty of people who will attend the vigil.

"Unsaon mani, dong, nga wala pa nahimutang ang lawas ni Cherry? Nagtagad ra siya ninyo. Wala pa na embalsamar," my lola said, her voice laced with subtle frustration. It was the kind of voice she reserved for moments of deep frustration, the same tone as her weary sighs when she hears my young cousin Liyang, who always seemed to bring news of my lolo boasting outside while drunk. 

Hey, Cherry, I heard about the seven-minute grace. Was it not cruel, Cherry, to be haunted by the memories of all you love while your body decays, as your mind clings desperately to the will to live?

[Part 6: six minutes have passed]

"Ang dakong katungod gyud ana kay ang inahan," the man standing by approached us, seeking to calm the situation.

"Dili ko mo sugot ana, uncle," Tadong replied, "wala na siya gapaka inahan kay Cherry. Dakong kasakit gyud na  kanako.” As six minutes passed and they discussed how to resolve the issue, Tadong eventually calmed down. They decided to bring Cherry’s body to a funeral home for embalming. They decided that we would be the ones to ride in the same car as Cherry. Tadong would take the jeep, while Ineng would ride the motorbike to the funeral home.

Hey, Cherry, your physical form is no longer you; all has been left behind. I pray you've found peace in the place you've gone to;

[Part 7: six minutes and fifty-nine seconds]

My lola and I waited in the funeral home when Ineng suddenly arrived, accompanied by police. She demanded to know if Tadong was already present, insisting that she would settle this matter. Eventually, after six minutes and fifty-nine seconds, Tadong finally walked in from the jeep and entered the funeral home. I had already begun folding the white fabric, the delicate baro't saya my lola said was meant for Cherry to wear in her bed. I folded it carefully, preparing it for the person who would perform the embalming.

“Nganong karon paman nimo kwaon si Cherry na wala na?” Tadong asked. The woman clenched her fist, ready to punch the boy, while he pulled out his pocket knife, threatening her in return. The police struggled to separate them as blood pooled on the ground. The roar of the ambulance filled the air. 

As the embalming room door opened, I caught a glimpse of Cherry’s hand resting over her head, flies swarming around her.

Hey, Cherry, What did you think about in that one last second? Was the seven minutes scary? The moment at six minutes and fifty-nine seconds to have wished to live it a second time. Or was the stillness of your body lying in the morgue even scarier, while everyone else busied themselves with the trivialities of their egos?