By Susana Eloida Grace C. Abaya

As I hold onto the familiar photograph, light flashed in my mind— illuminating those memories that I persistently buried in the darkest depth of my soul a long time ago.

I was just a small kid back then. Surely, it could not be denied that the only thing I care about was play and chocolates. I love toy cars and trucks; it really gave me delight every time my brother would buy me one.

My older brother is the only family I knew. It’s really heartbreaking whenever I think of our parents’ death years ago. But my brother showed me what bravery really is. He never stopped caring for me and he worked hard while studying so he could get a good job.

Just then, his hard work made a sweet fruit. He was able to finish schooling and he was able to find a good paying job—he was a photojournalist. His passion to capture every moment so to preserve its value made him a fine photojournalist.

He always leaves the house early in the morning and goes home late. As his only family, I learned household chores at an early age. But it didn’t matter. I know how much my brother sacrificed for us to have a well-off life.

Our life just went well. Every day, usual habits are being done. We don’t have much problem. Life wasn’t as simple as ABC but still we’re making it easier as it could be. But everything changed.

One night, while in front of my television watching my favorite TV show, I heard the door opened and slammed loud. My head almost turned 360 degrees to look towards the direction of the door.

There—I saw my brother, perspiring so hard. His face swathed with sweat. He was trembling like a cold animal in the middle of nowhere. I jumped off the sofa and ran to where he was standing.

“Kuya, are you okay? What happened?” I queried while holding tight to his cold trembling arm.

“Oh no, nothing. Just go to bed now. Turn off all the lights”, he commanded. I didn’t say anything. I knew he needed to take a rest.

The next morning, I woke up as I heard the birds chirping and the Taho vendor yelling. I was surprised to see my brother sitting on the sofa holding a photograph. On that photograph, there were two men touching a case.
“What’s with that photograph?,” I asked him. It took sometime before he let go of words. “Many people’s lives,” there was seriousness in his voice. I sat beside him.

“A photograph isn’t just a photograph”, I could still remember that statement that my brother said. “It conveys thousands of words and millions of emotions.”

During those days, I could not understand what he was trying to tell me. My young mind was filled with questions I could not even express in words. Though I could not get exact meaning of what he said, deep in my heart I could feel that it meant a lot.

Days passed quickly but my brother stayed at home doing nothing but stare at his collection of photographs. He did not even tell me the real reason why he stopped working. At my juvenile age, I knew something’s not right. Until…

We were eating supper while having a small chat. Then the door went bang! A profound silence ensued. The cruel chaps discovered our serene home.
I and my brother were speechless.

“Where’s the photograph?!,” one of the big men broke the stillness. And before my brother could say a word, a gun was put on to his head.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” my brother denied. I remember the photograph. That’s it. But sooner than I could involve myself in the situation, the gun released its slug and my brother—lifeless!

Blood stained the table and the floor. My eyes did not want to shut. Those beasts just left our house like nothing happened. I knelt down before my brother’s dead body. I cried with no sound, with difficulty in breathing. And I shouted for help. Neighbors came to rescue and one of them took me, loved me and cared for me.

I tried so hard to forget about the incident, so hard. Though I forgot, my brother inspired me and now, I have my own camera to capture every moment. Moments of families, friends, colleagues and—CRIMINALS!

Tonight, I opened my drawer and a small box in it. The photograph was in it— the photograph that took my brother’s life. The photograph that stole my only family. The photograph that brought me misery and gave me another bitter memory.

As I hold onto the familiar photograph, light flashed in my mind— illuminating those memories that I persistently buried in the darkest depth of my soul a long time ago.
But like any other photograph, it conveys thousands of words and millions of words. It reveals every truth that it has witnessed. It doesn’t lie.