Prologue
You ever try to light a match in Sagada?
I mean, really try? Like, you’re out there with your shaky little stick of sulfur, pretending you’re in a movie, slow-mo strike, dramatic flame, something poetic about fire and memory, and then whoosh, the wind just laughs in your face and snuffs it out before you can even feel warm.
That’s Sagada for you.
Especially on November 1.
It’s cold. Not Manila cold, where people bust out hoodies at 25 degrees and start tweeting about soup. I’m talking really cold. Bone-deep. The kind that gets into your joints and your teeth and makes you wish you were a ghost so you didn’t have to feel it.
(Too soon? Sorry.)
Anyway. Panag-aapoy.
That’s what this night is called. It’s when everyone climbs up to the cemetery with bundles of saleng (pinewood, if you’re not local), and lights fires for the dead. Not candles. Not flowers. Actual bonfires. Because the wind here doesn’t mess around, and neither do the people. If your grandma’s soul is watching from wherever she ended up, you better believe she deserves a proper blaze.
From up here, the whole town looks like it’s breathing. Smoke curling into the sky like prayers. Orange flames flickering on graves like heartbeat monitors. There’s laughter, even crying, sometimes both in the same breath. And the air smells like burnt pine and old stories. Like grief that’s been folded and unfolded so many times it’s soft at the edges.
I used to come here without thinking. Just part of the routine. You show up. You eat. You light someone else’s fire. You go home. Nothing sticks.
This year, I didn’t come up. Didn’t crack jokes about ghosts or sneak sips of gin behind mausoleums. I came alone. I brought a box of saleng I didn’t chop myself, wore a jacket I don’t remember grabbing, and stood by a grave that used to mean nothing to me.
And the thing is…I wasn’t even supposed to be here.
And I guess I’ve been thinking about how fast things change.
How forty days ago, I wasn’t this person. I didn’t care about graves. I didn’t believe in ghosts. I didn’t know what it meant to carry someone else’s name around in your mouth like it might break.
But now I’m here. Lighting match after match. Hoping one will stay lit. Long enough to mean something.
Long enough to say: I remember.
Even if I wasn’t supposed to.
