We are all Christmas
“Ma,” my daughter, Gia, said in a message over Viber on Christmas night, “I really didn’t feel Christmas this year.” I stared at her message and felt sad, not just
“Ma,” my daughter, Gia, said in a message over Viber on Christmas night, “I really didn’t feel Christmas this year.” I stared at her message and felt sad, not just
“We’re not going to anywhere this Christmas,” Alvin Oon sings to the tune of “It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas.” It caught my ear—never mind its awkward grammar—and
“Vergel!” I scream at the top of my lungs. I know just the right pitch to rouse him to my rescue, the unmistakable vocal tone suggesting blood and broken body
My clothes and shoes might be wondering why, all these nearly seven months, they have languished in their closets unworn, unused, untouched. I do look them over occasionally, wondering myself
The Roces genes are legendary; living into the 90s is more or less the rule. But this pandemic has been a challenge. It has scarcely eased, and our ranks have
Imelda Argel’s book, “A Pebble that Floats,” is the story of a woman’s victory over her own gender’s self-imposed limitations and a bold escape from her imprisonment in family and
I wish I had gotten to know my Tito Liling, the eldest born to my paternal grandparents, Rafael and Inocencia (Reyes) Roces, as well as I did all of Dad’s
I watched the United States’ Democratic convention with some envy about how technology was harnessed for the purpose. Until this virus has been licked and things are back to normal,
During lockdowns my day goes by a loose schedule of indoor movements for the health of both body and soul. I awaken at 7:15 to an iPhone alarm of birds
It’s relatively easy to put up with something that will eventually go away, like rain or even a typhoon. But how does one take something not even time can heal?
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