(Short Story / 1st of 5 Parts)

It was halfway through the century, my grandma’s 60th birthday. My parents were making sure that it would be a very memorable celebration. The services of a caterer and an event coordinator were acquired to ensure that the nitty-gritty details of the affair would be taken care of.

Our family compound was bustling with so much activity. People were all over. Most were in our sprawling front yard pitching tents, positioning tables and chairs, and decorating a makeshift stage. A few were in the lounge and the terrace for curtains and decorations, while others were in the kitchen cooking. In the backyard, the butchers worked on pig and cow carcasses, making the place messy and smelly. Thanks for the pig being roasted in an adjacent vacant lot. Its delectable aroma countered the nauseating smell of blood and uncooked meat.

It was not, however, with the big celebration that I was excited about but rather with my grandma’s promise that she would show me the blogs posted by one of the many men who fell crazy for her when she was still young. How did blogs look like when my grandma was still young? But more than that was the curiosity developed by my grandma’s constant mention of the man who she never thought would profess so much affection for her, more than the appreciation showered to her by anyone. But whenever I would ask if she also loved the man, my grandma would only smile but refuse to answer. No matter how adamant I would be in pressing for an answer, she would just stare at me and smile. And when I asked why she did not marry the man, she retorted, “Better if you just read later what he wrote for me in his blogs!” How frustrated I would be if she stated the same line for whatever questions I asked about her mysterious adorer.

She told me about the man and his blogs five years ago, after my grandpa died. Grandma said that Grandpa did not know about it. And since then, my curiosity about the man and his blogs has grown enormously. My grandma promised to finally show me what her mysterious adorer wrote about her in his blogs only when she turned 60, and that was that night. Five years of waiting would be over.

Like most blogs, the adorer’s blogs were purely personal, not interconnected or socially networked in the blogosphere. Those blogs were even classified as “private”; thus, they could not be read by anyone but the blogger himself. That was according to my grandma. But before that man left to pursue a career overseas, so my grandma could access his blogs, he left her a note containing the blog’s account name, the corresponding password, and a short message. Grandma kept that note carefully. She mounted it on a cardboard and carefully wrapped it with a plastic cover. She gave me a glimpse of it after my grandpa’s death but did not allow me to read the message. I tried to sneak into her room several times and wanted to find it, but Grandma was so clever. She kept it so tightly that, presumably, even my grandfather did not see it.

Nothing seemed to interest me that night, but when Grandma finally revealed everything to me. Not even the seemingly endless stream of food and drinks and the presence of relatives and friends would distract me from wanting to know more about my grandma’s adorer. I wished the celebration would be finished early, if not abruptly ended.

Anxiously that I waited until the last of the visitors went out. It was almost midnight when the caterers left, hauling their materials and equipment with them. Even my dead-tired parents proceeded to the bedroom and took their well-deserved rest.

My most awaited moment came. I proceeded to the gate, but an old car stopped before I could close it. That old car looked familiar, for many times that I have seen it in the past. It was a Mercedes Benz car. It would always roll off slowly whenever it passed by our house. It was for the first time that it made a stop. It was my intention not to mind whoever was in the car, fearing that the one driving may be a visitor who would require the attention of my grandma, thereby unnecessarily prolonging my agony of waiting for the realization of grandma’s promise.
To my surprise, the driver disembarked and walked towards the gate. I tried to walk away, pretending not to have seen him. But much to my chagrin, he called me out.

“Hey, young man. May I have a moment with you?”

With a heavy heart, I approached him. The driver was an old man. It’s hard to determine his age. I wasn’t good at that, but I think he’s older than my grandmother. However, he looked trim and healthy. His shoulders were broad, and his biceps and chest muscles were well-defined. His physique suggests that he could have worked out regularly when he was young, or he might still be doing it. I have been seeing a lot of senior citizens in the gym where I go once in a while.

“Good evening, hijo,” he said, “please give this to your grandma. My apologies for the bother!”

“No worries, sir! You are welcome! I replied.” It was an old-fashioned birthday card that the old man handed me. I didn’t realize that such stuff still exists.

“Thank you. Good night!” said the old man. He gave me a tap on the shoulder, went back to his car then rolled off slowly. As I closed the gate, I noticed the car parked on a nearby roadside under a bright light post in front of a newly-built bungalow.

When finally, nothing stood between me and the fulfillment of my grandma’s promise, excitedly that I searched for her. Grandma was nowhere to be found, not in the garden or the living room. I suspected she could be in her bedroom dozing off already, for indeed, it was a tiring birthday celebration she had had.

EVERLASTING (Part 2)