Full of Blasts

In a matter of a few hours, it will be another year once more. Even though there are still three hours left, the sky is already teeming with colorful and iridescent showers of firecrackers, plus the ceaseless honking and deafening noises that come with them. Dogs are barking in agitation and fear. There is a hustling bustle of activity everywhere you go and look.

I especially miss the media noche we had a few years ago. Back then, it was so much more enjoyable and blissful. There was an unmistakable sense on unequaled gaiety floating in the air, and nothing could seem to dampen the cheerful mood. Of course there were mountains of delicious meals for everyone. And when I say everyone, I mean it literally – all of my mom’s siblings would be present, along with their family. Even my uncle who lived outside the country was there to celebrate the wonderful event with us. Laughter would hover in the air amidst endless streams of various conversations.

I hadn’t experienced such a thing for what seemed like a long time now.

These days, only our family would be together in new year’s eve – five people all in all. You’d say it can still be considered fun since we still have firecrackers and foods, but the mood is . . . different. When I was hoping that we could at least have one peaceful night together before the year end, again I was proven mistaken. How I wish that my assumptions weren’t always wrong. Or that what I wanted would always be thwarted by fate.

Quarrels, fights, throwing of things, shouts. . . What a lovely way to start the year.

Here I go again, wondering whose problem it really was. Wondering who really was wrong and right between them. Perhaps I could never tell, I would never know. I would be forever left wondering what really started it all, what really sparked the flame. I would forever be wondering how it all became like this, when it used to be, if not perfect, in harmony.

Maybe it’s my fault, after all. Maybe I have to be blamed for this. I never speak out. I never try to talk to each of the side to know the story. Yes, I listen to them rant, but I never say my opinion. Because I’m afraid, because I’m afraid. It just might be my doing, being such a weakling who perhaps never tried to do anything to bring back this family the way it used to be.

Yes. It might just have been my fault.