ETHER DIARIES

    I dodged an arranged date because of an emergency call. Admittedly, I’m that career-driven person with a heart locked tighter than a corrupt politician’s bank account. Relationships? I’ve always seen them as detours. Beautiful, yes, but prone to traffic and emotional potholes. I’m content being single. The thought of dating, falling, hiding, and hurting already stresses me out. Love feels like a group project I didn’t sign up for.       So there I was barreling through a violent downpour on a Sunday morning to catch a birth–Italian arias blasting through the speakers like I was scoring my own operatic tragedy. Then, like a memory slipping through the cracks,the classic 

‘O Sole Mio began to play. 
    It cracked open a vault I thought I’d sealed years ago. It reminded me of my dad who used to sing Italian arias like he was auditioning for La Scala while fixing the car. 

’O Sole Mio was one of his favorites. He sang it with the kind of passion that made you believe the sun really was shining just for him.
    I was channeling my inner tenor, trying to hit the high notes while on my way to the hospital. The rain was biblical. The mood? Cinematic. And just as I reached the climactic “na jurnata ’e sole,” a flying tree branch smacked my windshield like a divine slap. I didn’t finish the lyric. I let out an “AY PUTA!” with a crunch so crisp, it echoed like a chicharon in a silent cathedral. 
    But this serenade has a way of sneaking past your defenses. And when I heard ’O Sole Mio again, that frozen part of me stirred. Just a little. Just enough. At the back of my mind, a thought lingered: is it my dad whispering to me?
I began an internal monologue:

    I dunno, Dad. I wish I had your voice. But instead, you left me the no-facial-hair gene. Not cool. Still, thanks for the no-balding gene—I’ll take that win. 

    You were always the quiet parent. The least affectionate. But I always knew you were the more open-minded one. 

    I wish you had taught me how to drive, instead of that hot-tempered guy who nearly made me question my worth. I don’t know how to fix a car—can’t even check the oil, let alone refill it. I wish you were here, pointing at the refill ports, singing your arias like it was just another Sunday chore.

    I wish you were there when I became chief. Like you, I was called hepe. I should’ve taken my leadership cues from you instead of winging it alone.     I wish you had seen me don my sablay, wear my hood, and carry my medallions—each one a quiet triumph. But before memory turned on you, you only remembered me as your high school son, still on the cusp of the state university. That’s where your mind left me. That’s where I stayed, in your fadingrecall. 

    I wish you were here to give me relationship advice. I wish you were here to tell me it’s okay to love. That it’s okay to want. That it’s okay to sing. Even if the high notes crack and the windshield breaks. But you’re not here, dad. And I’m left with a half-sung aria, and a heart that’s suddenly misbehaving.

    My father died when I was a medical intern. A brilliant, honest man betrayed by dementia. He remembered having a son, but only as a boy about to enter UP for college. He didn’t know that boy had grown. That he was the intern in scrubs standing right there, about to finish his medical studies. 

I parked outside the hospital, rain still raging like a telenovela climax. I wiped the fog off the glass, stared at my own reflection. Wet, tired, slightly ridiculous, and whispered, “O Sole Mio.” Not the high note this time. Just the quiet part. The part that aches.

Maybe this is what grief does. It sneaks into your Spotify queue. It rides shotgun during storms. It sings through you when you least expect it. And maybe love, whatever form it takes, isn’t a hurdle. Maybe it’s the song itself. The one you don’t need to hit perfectly. Just honestly.

So here I am. Still single. Still stubborn. Still dodging tree branches and emotional intimacy. But tonight, I let myself feel something. I let myself miss you. I let myself want. And maybe that’s enough for now.

    Ciao, hepe. Keep singing wherever you are. I’ll try to listen more closely next time.