We were on our second bottle of dry, white wine. Beer overflows when you live in Nordrhein Westfalen, but for wine, a special trip to one of the excellent wineries in the Rhine Valley is required. And because we lived in the northern part, several cases of white and red wine were purchased.

He laid on the grass, gazing at the stars, rubbing his full belly. It was the pleasant month of May. The mild breeze nudged the lilies of the valley that dotted the grass. The bells of the season’s bloom shivered slightly and gave off its sweet smell. Perfect.

“I hope there’s a timeout place we can hang out when we die. Like a layover where your spirit can linger for a bit to give you one final chance to make good all the bad, the hurt and sadness you inflicted on others. Later, your past deeds are assessed. You’re given points, or not, for the test you just took, then judgment is passed and you’re whisked off to wherever your soul will hang out for eternity.”

“And how would you do that if you’re dead?” I asked, intrigued by my German friend’s philosophizing statement. “How would one atone for their wrong doings? What if you didn’t get a chance to release the accumulated anger against another person in your lifetime? You know, the blind kind of rage kept in check until the day you died.”

“Well, this way station is for that purpose. You can’t undo what you’ve done. What you do there is iron things out with your conscience, make peace with yourself,” he said. “Admit all the crap you perpetrated, all the suffering and misery you caused your family and friends, release all that anger.”

“So, what?” I said. “Are you given “déja vu” scenarios to play out? To undo what you did, to see if you’ve sufficiently regretted all the bad things you did? Do you get rid of the anger and sadness inside?

“Yeah, something like that,” he said.

I agreed but didn’t pursue the downer conversation. It was way too heavy for a lovely night. Besides, I was in my twenties and felt alive and invincible. I was living the good life in Germany, had a good job, good friends and the romance department was booming. What did I care?

I lost my friend in a motorcycle accident during one of my return trips to Germany. I was visiting from the place I called home then — last frontier state of the U.S. — Alaska. I was supposed to ride with him, but changed my mind. Instead I took the train with some friends and said I’d meet him in Wuppertal. He didn’t show up.

I remember being pissed off and then falling apart when my brother-in-law called later to say he had been in an accident. The dreaded news didn’t need to be uttered, I knew the connection between myself and my special friend was severed permanently. To this day, I still feel the loss.

That conversation from many moons ago came back to me. I pulled it out of my memory banks the day after I received the news. When my cousin lay in a coma in a hospital in Manila, not expected to survive. The waiting part is hell on the nerves and emotions.

When the text message from my sister showed up on the screen of my cell phone, it didn’t quite register. I was in Honolulu, far from Manila. A trickle of tears came then, not many, because we somehow knew his ravaged body couldn’t take the abuse. But maybe the impact of the news needed to register in my brain.

The floodgate of tears broke the next day and the memories came tumbling out, like sweets from a jar.

Two sisters, courted by two brothers, during the horrific time of the Japanese occupation of the Philippines. The brothers married the two sisters — and so the beginning of two families as if one. Like good Catholics, they procreated. One sister produced 7 children and the other 11, but one child died.

Two noisy households, two sets of parents with two sets of kids with a retinue of yayas, drivers and cooks occupied side-by-side duplex homes in the province and in Manila. Our grandmother must have planned it that way.

Early on, the cousins were paired by age: how well they got along, who to hang out with, go hunting with, who would be the confidante to run to when life dealt a harsh blow to young, sensitive egos. Partnerships and friendships were established.

There was the odd child out. The term for it these days is middle child syndrome. I belonged in that category: quiet, sullen, tomboyish, nearsighted from too much reading with a flashlight under the blanket and hardly participating in the noise and raucous of too many siblings and cousins. But cousin Mario drew me out, with his infectious smile, beckoning me to join in the fun, and I did.

Our grandmother’s plan of keeping the family together was a good one. We would be happily together, forever. And it seemed it would last, but as in most cases, it was not meant to be.

You leave an empty place in the hearts of Annie, Patrick, Bianca, Terrence and the rest of us who must go about the business of living. Those of us who spent our childhood and growing up years with you will always remember your smile, endless corny jokes, family gatherings with the obligatory karaoke singing, but most of all we will miss our cousin/brother, the human being.

If you’ve passed the way station to where your spirit will have found a home, not to worry, we’ll catch up with you. See you later, cuz.

Tags: Mario Joaquin