Bad, Bad Weather

The weather seems to have developed a taste for mind games lately and last Saturday was a proud display of the mastery it has somehow gained.

But I was not to be outwitted. On the car ride on our way to Balayan for my nephew Mojo's 7th birthday, I came prepared with sunglasses in my bag in case the sun decides to shine and jacket in hand in case the rain chooses to fall. Either way, I was determined not to lose the game.

And so it went. From Boracay hot to Baguio cold. From a major downpour to a light drizzle. From dry roads to flooded highways. From ominous dark clouds to promising blue skies.


I hurriedly put on my jacket right before it was about to rain and off when it was about to stop. I quickly wore my shades when the sun was about to come out—not wanting to give it a chance to hurt my eyes—and just as quickly slid them to the top of my head just before it became too dark. This went on and on until finally I did not have enough energy to keep up with the weather and its bag of tricks.

Around 10 kilometers away from our destination, the sun was mockingly back to its old hot self but I was just too tired to care. I refused to take off my jacket in spite of the growing heat nor wear my shades back over my eyes despite the migraine-inducing brightness outside. I sat morosely and stared defiantly ahead, not once glancing upward where the weather was sure to be gloating in its apparent victory over the hapless human being that was me.

Talk About the Weather

It was around six in the evening last Sunday after a brief shower that must have caused the day's hellish weather when suddenly the sky was aglow. Heaven was on fire.


Later that night, the rain poured in torrents. Its heavy sound broken only by bolts of thunder that came with blinding flashes of lightning that sent my Indie cowering even in her half-asleep state. Only when the storm subsided did she fall back into a peaceful slumber, but still with her hands over her ears.

I remember I was just as cowed as a little girl. The oldies at home, to erase our childish fears, used to give us kids some form of explanation that sounded foolish even to our unenlightened ears. They said thunder was merely the sound made when God was bowling—yes, bowling—with his friends up there. While lightning was the doing of shutter-happy angels. Oh well, God must have played a mean game of bowling that stormy Sunday and the heavenly paparazzi simply had a field day.