From the house where I grew up, about three tongue-and-groove planks were missing from the dining room floor. Each was roughly a foot long, and together they formed a square about a foot wide. The cavity was covered with half-inch plywood nailed down.
On the living room wall hangs a painting of a boat—its sail rolled up—riding the waves of a violent, stormy sea. It was not on a canvass. It was on the tounge and groove planks. Tatay had sawn out the floor planks where Kuya Uro created his first masterpiece. He was just over a year old when he did that. Talent, I believe, is a form of grace.
Tatay would always marvel at that painting. Of all the works Kuya created in his lifetime, that one was his favorite. Kuya painted all his life. Painting was his life.
The Lord Almighty gave him a gift—the ability to give life to memories, visions, dreams, and emotions. With every brushstroke, breath was given to the canvas. His paintings resonated with the soul.
During his sophomore year, Kuya discovered Tatay’s infidelity. He stopped praying. It was painful for him, thus he leaned on pain relievers. Morphine, and heroine, among others. As it worsened, lines of cocaine were chopped on a painter’s palette for breakfast. The once adorable young man became a burden to the entire family. Kuya and Tatay grew to hate each other.
Despite his dependence on substances, his talent remained his ticket—to both survival and destruction. He became even better when he shifted to airbrush work. He landed a spot as one of the designers of a popular theme park while it was being built. His art made his chemicals affordable. But talent alone does not equate to success. His work ethic deteriorated. No one trusted him anymore.
At home, bedroom doors were locked. The welcome sign on the rug no longer meant what it said. It was no longer a safe place. Even loose coins went missing.
He was my brother. I admired his paintings. He paid me to prepare his canvases, to frame his pieces. He drew all my school projects until I graduated high school. We were best friends. It broke my heart to see him trade valuable artworks for a pack of Marlboro or a can of sardines.
One day, convinced the world was against him, and still in denial of his Mr. Hyde, Kuya gathered all his paintings—hundreds of them, in all sizes. He lit a cigarette, then set his life’s work on fire. The blaze was so large that the local firemen came. Our house nearly burned down. My shop did not survive. The sailboat might have endured the waves, but not the fire.
A few more years passed. Worse things happened. Kuya eventually left. Yet even in his absence, fear lingered around our home.
One day, Kuya Uro returned. He had lived as a homeless man along Roxas Boulevard for six months. When he came home, his clothes were dark gray, his hair long, and everything about him was filthy. He apologized.
Ate Prax took him to a spa. The people there recognized him. They bathed him well. She bought him new clothes and a new pair of shoes. When I saw him, I saw my kuya again—not the jolly brother I once knew, but still him, somewhere inside the man standing before me.
I missed him.
We spent the nights talking. He told me stories of his life as a hobo. I understood so much. I learned so much. Tatay came. They talked. They asked for and gave forgiveness. Twenty-three years of hatred were extinguished in an embrace.
The night ended well.
But Kuya took his own life.
He left a note. Somewhere between the lines, he wrote about how his eyes had lost the colors of the world. His vision remained, but the hues were gone.
More than the stories of Kuya’s life on the streets, I learned this:
Revenge destroys the vengeful, but forgiveness brings redemption. Life is short. A life of impertinence, hatred, and godlessness is not a life worth living.
Kuya died at the age of thirty-seven.
Originally published on Benjie's Bench - Measuring Life's lessons in Millimeters
https://www.facebook.com/share/p/18L8QS5DDj/