Last Saturday, after clay shooting, a friend and I shared a car ride home.
He told me his mom is ill.
He said, "If you think of my time as 100%, a huge chunk already belongs to taking care of my mom."
The time left for himself was small.
He chooses carefully how he spends it.
He does not waste it.
It stayed with me.
I used to fill my days with sixteen hours of work.
I worked through weekends.
I thought it was something to be proud of.
I wore it like a badge.
I thought using time meant squeezing everything out of it.
Now, I want to live differently.
I want to be choiceful too, even if I am not forced to be yet.
My parents are in their seventies.
I see it in the way they move.
I hear it in the way they ask for small things.
I have been craving more time with them.
Sometimes it looks like buying medicines and making sure they follow their prescription schedule.
Sometimes it is listening to my dad tell the same story for the fiftieth time, and answering with the same curiosity as if I am hearing it for the first time.
Sometimes it is driving my dad all the way to Cavite on a Sunday afternoon, to visit the wake of a relative he loved.
Sometimes it is teaching my mom how to switch her K-dramas to Tagalog dub, so she can laugh and cry without reading subtitles.
Sometimes it is sending load through GCash so they have data when they leave the house.
Sometimes it is ordering a charger they need, or buying something random for them on Shopee.
Sometimes it is a simple prayer whispered over the phone when one of them says they have a headache.
The moments are not grand.
They are small, easy to miss.
But they are the ones I want to remember.
My favorite has been the prayers.
I call just to pray for them.
Sometimes they cry tears of joy.
I never knew how much these small things would mean to me.
I do not know how many afternoons I have left with them.
I do not know how many more times I can pray for them and hear their voices.
I do not know how many more times I can hear them laugh.
I do not know how many more small things I will get the chance to give.
But I know it will never be enough.