I have written several versions of this story, the first time being 19 years ago, when I was 7. It was an attempt to finish what had been started, to try to make sense of what happened, but more than anything else, it was a little girl’s attempt at catharsis. I have tried telling the story many times after that—accurately, creatively, simply. This is yet another try.

On Oct. 7, 1989 my brother A.A.L. died of leukemia. He was 17 and graduating from high school at De La Salle Zobel. He was going to the University of the Philippines to study Biology and later become a doctor. Instead, on Aug. 21, 1989, on his 17th birthday, he was confined at the Children’s Medical Center in Quezon City. He died less than two months later.

Those are the plain and simple facts, not the story. There are many ways of telling the story of my brother’s life, and I have long wanted to do so. But in the end, when I tell the story, it is from the perspective of a younger sister, and so the story is that of A. the big brother, the kuya. I feel that I owe it to him to find out who he was by talking to people who knew him—as a son, a friend, a boyfriend, an enemy, a student, a classmate, a cousin, a nephew, a basketball player, etc. Maybe someday, I will be able to do so. But for now, all I can do is tell the story as I know it.

My brother was 10 years older than me. I can say that he anticipated my entrance into his life. Actually, he eagerly and anxiously waited for my arrival. When my mom was about to give birth to me, he paced the corridors (of his school, that is) like a father-to-be. A teacher asked him what was wrong and he said he wanted to know if mom had already given birth. She brought him to the office so that he could call the hospital.

When finally he saw me, he was probably afraid I would either disappear into thin air or grow suddenly without his noticing it, because he kept a record of my first few days and months in his diary. My birthday, he wrote, was the best day of his life because his sister was finally born. He wrote that I was the most beautiful baby in the world. He wrote that I was already one week, two, three, four, five, six, etc. weeks old. He noted that I was getting bigger, fatter, healthier, more and more beautiful (his words, not mine) as the days passed by.

I don’t know when he outgrew this kind of devotion to me, but I must have intuited how much I meant to him because when I was a few years older, I took advantage of it. He spoiled me by buying me little trinkets and letting me play with his toys.

We played together sometimes, with my Barbie dolls and his matchbox cars. But the game I liked most was pretending we were on a spaceship on the way to the moon. He would bring out his glow-in-the-dark things, turn on the air-conditioning in his room, turn off the lights, and make all these weird sounds and noises as we were about to take off. It was magical.

Because I was used to having his attention, I resented it when I had to share it with others. When his friends came over, especially the girls, I made sure that I was always around. I became the source of entertainment — singing, dancing, reciting poems. I made sure they knew I was the apple of my brother’s eye. I was a jealous little sister.

One time I felt threatened by his excitement over a T-shirt autographed by Gretchen Barretto. I got the shirt and crossed out the signature with my black Pentel pen. But no matter what I did — like write my name on his possessions, or trash his room, or scream and cry — I always seemed to get away with it.

I loved it when he would carry me on his shoulders or dress me up in weird outfits and take pictures of me doing crazy poses. He liked to ruffle my hair, tickle my foot, and blow on my tummy, making farting sounds. We liked eating Vcut, ice cream and watching movies on Betamax. We watched “Sound of Music” seven consecutive times. By the seventh time, we had already memorized the songs, and I was singing and dancing.

Because I loved to sing and dance back then, I was taken to play a part in a school play. When my brother saw me on stage, he kept telling his friends, “Kapatid ko ’yan! Kapatid ko ’yan!” [“That’s my sister! That’s my sister!”] I didn’t know until then how proud he was of me. And for that, I loved him even more.

Our relationship wasn’t perfect. There were times when I would cry and tell mom, “Inaaway ako ni kuya.” [“Elder brother is quarreling with me.”] I hated it when he locked his room and wouldn’t let me in, or if he wouldn’t let me go with him when he went out. So when he got sick and all the attention was on him, I couldn’t help but say, “Bakit lagi na lang si kuya?” [“Why is the attention always with elder brother?”]

For almost two months, he kept going back to the hospital. But when he was home, it seemed as if everything was going to be OK. We would play and he would laugh a lot. He was weak, true, but it didn’t look like he was going to die. We played cards, watched TV and listened to his tapes. When mom would tell me gently that he had to rest, I would leave his room and sulk.

I didn’t realize that so many others loved him too. Almost everyone in school, from the teachers to the kids, asked me how he was doing. Every day after school, I always had stuff for him: letters, food, flowers, “cartolina” paper sheets with messages from his friends and classmates, posters, notes of lessons, etc. This prompted him to ask one time, “Did I have to get sick to know how much people care for me?”

He said he wanted to leave a legacy. One of his teachers told us that in a way, he did. When news of his death reached the school, there was complete and utter silence during Mass for the first time.

He didn’t make it to his graduation in March, but he was allowed to graduate posthumously. When his name was called, the crowd roared and chanted his name. They kept up the chant and stood up as we walked from our seats to the stage. I was trembling and in tears. I don’t know how I was able to make it up there.

My brother was a friendly guy, but I had no idea how many friends he had. There were so many people during his wake and funeral. And the girls, there were so many of them. And they were all crying. I wondered if they were all his girlfriends. I knew he had a lot of pictures of different girls in his photo album, and that he made it a point to meet at least one attractive girl wherever he went.

Everyone kept saying he was very kind. My parents said I was feisty, while he was meek. I would try to run away whenever they imposed discipline, while he would stay and endure it. I would throw a tantrum whenever I didn’t get what I wanted, while he would keep his emotions to himself.

I know he was not perfect. He himself wrote in one of his assignments, “There is no such thing as perfection, but our family is a few steps behind it.” He definitely was a few small steps behind it.

“A Painful Experience Filled with Sweet Memories.” That was the title of the essay he started writing when he got sick. I tried to continue it the year he died and it became the first version of this story. Growing up, I felt compelled to re-tell it and relive it lest I forget a very important part of who I am. Now, 19 years later, the story is still painful, but the memories remain sweet.

Diana A. Laserna, 26, is a high school teacher at Atheneum and an MA candidate at the Ateneo de Manila University.