Lifting the Veil

 I woke up twenty minutes ago, my shirt sticking to my back in the 25°C stillness of the room. There was no nightmare, just a sudden, sharp realization that the world was about to start celebrating a resurrection while I was still very much buried. The humidity in the Metro at this hour feels like a physical weight, a premonition of the 33°C heat that’s going to bake the city by noon.

I pulled my laptop into my lap, the blue light stinging my eyes, and for some reason, the only thing I can smell is Sampaguita and melted wax.

When I was seven, 3:20 AM meant something entirely different. It meant my mother gently shaking me awake in our house in QC, the scratchy feeling of a new Barong Tagalog against my neck, and the excitement of driving through the empty, cool streets toward Sto. Domingo Church. Back then, the Metro didn't feel like a meat grinder; it felt like a cathedral.

I remember standing in the dark crowd at the Galilea—that high platform where the "angels" waited. I remember my father’s hand, calloused and warm, holding mine so I wouldn't get lost in the sea of devotees. We’d wait for the moment of the Salubong, that beautiful, staged encounter between the Risen Christ and the Mourning Mother. When that little girl dressed as an angel would be lowered on a rope to lift the black veil from Mary’s head, the crowd would erupt.

As a kid, I truly believed that when that veil came off, the sadness of the world ended. I thought that was the secret—that someone, somewhere, would eventually lift the darkness for all of us, and we’d all just go home to a breakfast of pandesal and hot chocolate, and everything would be new.

Now, I’m thirty-something, sitting in the dark of a rented room, staring at a resume that feels like a list of ghosts. There is no angel on a rope coming to lift the fog from my brain. There is no crowd cheering for my return to the living. The "veil" I’m wearing isn't made of lace; it’s made of missed opportunities and the chemical imbalance that makes me feel like I’m permanently stuck in the silence of Good Friday.

I wonder if my parents knew, back then, that they were raising a son who would eventually find it hard to even walk out the door. I wonder if they saw the haze starting to settle in my eyes even while I was singing "Alleluia."

But as I sit here, watching the clock tick toward 4:00 AM, I realize that even though I can't feel the "Glory" today, I’m still here to witness the dawn. I woke up. I opened the screen. I’m typing these words into the void. Maybe the resurrection isn't a grand event with trumpets and angels. Maybe for people like us, the resurrection is just the act of choosing to stay awake for one more morning.

The sky over Sto. Domingo will be turning that pale, bruised grey soon. The bells will ring. And even if I’m still under the stone, at least I’m not alone in the dark.

Did you ever have a moment as a kid where you felt like the world was finally "fixed"? Are you still waiting for someone to lift the veil today?