My family told me the story of Kapitan Kiko when I was small, and I was always interested by the little stories and relics that they had lying about. I started remembering the stories about him, and the pictures of him beside a national hero, when a classmate told me his story in Afghanistan.
He was proud of what he did, what he gave up, but his hands shook and his voice cracked at certain parts of his story. I bought him another drink, and asked him what would he change if he could.
"To forget that time."
I stopped asking questions after that, and drank to memories we'd both like to forget.
*picture is originally from http://www.earthshots.org/2013/03/behind-the-old-window-by-adrian-limani/
04/18/2014 (Saturday)- Kapitan Kiko
There’s a bolo knife that my grandfather kept in his basement, rusty with age and filled with stories, sleeping in its leather scabbard. It belonged to your Great-grandfather. He was part of the Katipunan.
“Why hide it?” I asked. “This is a relic, a symbol of freedom, this should be in a museum.”
My grandfather shook his head crying at my foolishness.
He put it in the basement to forget—the people who died, the young men he killed, the life it stole from him. War should never be glorified.
I said good-bye, saluting him as I left.
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