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(This is for a dear friend who went before his time, though I maintain that he did enough to last several lifetimes. Kuya, you are still sorely missed.)

Last Saturday I went back to St. Jude to honor somebody very special to me, and to a lot of other people. He went away only last year, but to those who had the privilege to know and love him well, his absence gets more plainly felt in our hearts.

One of the first friends I made in law school was Kuya Kiko. I first saw him as a smiling, bespectacled guy who was so persistent in selling books and case digests to our freshman class four years ago. Little did I know that we would become choirmates, and then orgmates.

He kept a very busy schedule. I would later learn that he studied after school to the wee hours of the morning, then helped his family with their business, only after which he would go home to sleep. This was his grueling regimen in law school, and I wonder if he kept nearly the same Supermanlike schedule after hurdling the Bar.

There was something in Kuya Kiko that could draw people to him instantly. Maybe it was his confidence, his effortless air in assuring people that things would get done - and yes, he kept his promises. I remember how desperate I was in locating a book for my Sales class. He not only offered to lend me his book (and he was a barista this time), but perhaps sensing my urgency, returned to his dorm room and gave it to me pronto. Other times I would text him questions I culled from readings and he’d reply rightaway. He was a truly a friend in need.

With the choir and AAA, he was just as accommodating, but if business matters needed discussing, he took things seriously. He expected a lot from members and taught us how to manage our priorities. If it was choir, he showed up for practices and played the organ, even at his own graduation. With the AAA, he showed up for meetings even when he was already working, still helped out at every bar operations and selflessly contributed to the org’s finances.

Yet he still had time for his family and friends. That was his credo in life - that a person could balance the important things in his life, that everything must be in moderation.

He was constantly busy, so alive, with so much to look forward to.

Until that day came, in the last week of September last year, when my friend called me with the news that Kuya Kiko had died of a heart attack. It was too sudden. Our Kuya Kiko, so talented, so involved with the many causes he cared for, so young…I could not believe it. Not until I got to their home that same night and saw for the first time the guy we depended so much on, lying inert in his final earthly domain.

Their house was filled to maximum capacity with tearful friends and family members. I can still recall the heartfelt testimonials of those who came to bid him goodbye. Though the experiences were different, they spoke of the same thing: Kuya knew how to give a part of himself to anyone who needed him.

That night I was given the painful realization of how easy it is to take and take from a person but not appreciate his generosity while he is there to hear it. I wish I’d hugged him more often. Texted him more often. Or simply thanked him for showing up for choir during his busiest times when I myself was not there.

Kuya, I am so sorry for the times I disappointed you, for not exerting extra effort when I could have, and for being remiss in my loyalty to my affiliations.

This is why I will hold every last Saturday of September from this year and onward sacred to your memory, and more importantly, to what you have taught us. I promise you that those lessons will live on in us and in those whose lives we touch.

And I hope that you have enough to do there in the big court in the sky.