THE DAY has stretched long enough for Kimpoy’s back to hurt, as it has been seated on the plastic stool in front of the computer. With a promise of pocket money, Kimpoy usually spends the week before Undas at his uncle’s computer shop. Helping out editing on Photoshop, printing out banners, and even memorial pictures.
When his grandfather died a few years ago, Kimpoy took it upon himself to edit and print his funeral poster—the least a teenage boy could do to ease the burden of expenses, and to perhaps preserve his old man on his own.
Kimpoy had since then learned to treat the act as a mere side job, rather than let his mind wander about life and death. Each time he faces the screen, he is reminded of the first time he used it, the familiar blue and white blinding him.
When the ringing of his uncle’s voice calling him over, his grandfather’s memorial photo flashed before his eyes. Perhaps it was the familiar whir of the computer that reminded him of his old man, a faint noise bleeding through the stillness of the air around them.
He had gone through family albums, only to end up using an old family photo with his grandfather in the middle.The hollowness of it still lingered every time he came across his old man’s funeral photo, avoiding it every instance.
His hand lingered on the mouse, staring at the computer screen. Mindlessly, he wondered: how nice it must be to have enough photos that document a person’s life, to have something to keep, to have something to remember. F
