Laki Sulpicio

I remember the people I left, those I didn’t burry.

Laki Sulpicio, friend to my grandfather, ministerial servant hall-of-famer, never saw him become an elder even if he deserved it. Humblest of all of them. His one foot forward into the faith of his wife the other foot still grounded on a distant past, a past where he help built the oldest deep well in our barangay, where he served as an official for many years, years before he embraced a faith that required him to abandon politics.

We were taught to be neutral. Ours is the kingdom of God, they said. It can’t be part of this world. Was that the reason why Old Sulpicio never become an elder?

All these younger men above him at the kingdom hall, which he was left to do the dirty work, which he has always done anyway—account for the books, arrange the magazines.

I was too young back then. Just barely into puberty. But I saw all of these. I loved it whenever we were paired together on the field. I didn’t feel the pressure to perform. He told me many stories I’ve now forgotten. Treated me like his own grandson. Walking beside him I heard him catch his breath. Wheezing, I knew he was struggling.

Laki Sulpicio died about five years ago. I was still living in Sta. Maria. They laid his remains a few blocks from our home, but I never went to show my respects. Everyone there knew me. Everyone there will make a fuss. I didn’t even make a big deal out of it. Until now.

Laki Sulpicio, I remember you.