Thinking of Mr. Suma brings out the best in me. The man I met in Manila was the emaciated remain of a proud executive my father used to know, which did not prevent him from carting me to the best companies as an apology for something my father didn't do. He died last year, his voice twisting as he answered my call from a hospital bed: "You do not understand." Well, yes. For the majority of us it is only after the wheel has turned a few revolutions that light dawns. Rumination now enables me to think Mr. Suma’s last groan a valedictory advice to one he was leaving behind. With some effort one may find good in the strangest places. I likewise, on occasion, unearth eerie fragments of myself, crafted remains spoiled by time and ill use. (1987)
Copyright ©2002 Olivier Serrat |
