“Bakit Angela pangalan mo?”
How do we actually miss someone we’ve never met? Does the feeling just come with the idea of them? Is it mere loneliness? Or were my dreams as real as the pain of not seeing my brother in the flesh?
As a child, I could never answer the simple questions “Do you have any siblings? May kapatid ka ba?” without having to second-guess. It is true that I am an only child—but I have always heard about him, my brother. I have always longed to meet him, but I know I can’t: People who have siblings in heaven would know this pain of longing.
He was born on March 17, 2003, and died two days after. He was a premature baby — his skin was undeveloped and he was small and very fragile. Despite the efforts to keep him alive, they weren’t enough to make the heavens reconsider his leaving.
My parents have always told me about him, and I’ve lived on their descriptions of him: He had my father’s nose, he looked like my mother, he was very handsome, according to my grandmother. As a child, I prayed “Angel of God” to him, as the engraved letters on his epitaph read “Our angel in heaven.” That is what he is to me, an angel.
I still think he lives in me. My strengths, my talents, and my skills are not only mine but his, too. I remember my first days in first grade where everyone was new, as I had transferred schools from kindergarten to a bigger school. For years, I had always been called by my nickname “Gelay,” short for Angela. On that day, I introduced myself as Dana for the first time. For some, this was not a big deal; people changed names all the time. But that was not the case for me. “Gelo” was my brother’s nickname, and I had always lived by his name. Our names never came in separate. Introducing myself as Dana that day felt as if I had changed into a different person. Since that day, I’ve become known as Dana Belo.
Some people say our deceased loved ones visit us in the form of butterflies. I still believe that the little brown butterfly that visits ever so frequently is him. That same butterfly has been to family gatherings, birthdays, sports games, and even in sad times like the passing of a loved one. It’s a brown butterfly no bigger than a P10 coin, with a few spots here and there. I have seen it in my dreams, too.
When I was 15, my brother visited me in a dream. He had the same type of hair like me, but shorter; he was neither muscular nor lousy-looking. His face was blurry, yet he wore the same shade of brown as the little butterfly that had been visiting us for years. He offered me ice cream and asked how I was. He asked about school, about family, and about my life. Then he looked at me as if he already knew the answers. We continued to talk and eat ice cream in the mini garden of our house, like how I would imagine it if he had been with us in real life. I felt happy and contented to be there with him and to be catching up on life. Then he told me he should be leaving. I remember asking him to stay; then I heard the words “I’m proud of you” before I woke up alone again.
I have never forgotten that dream. And I have not forgotten to bring my brother with me everywhere and in everything. When I first got on my sports team in 2017, I chose 17 as my jersey number, for his birthday. Though I still use my nickname, I tell everyone that my second name came from my brother’s. I still write 17 on my ankles and wrists before examinations and tournaments. I still write about him and pray “Angel of God,” seeing him as my guardian angel.
I will forever look for the little brown butterfly at every family occasion. I do not live only for myself, I live for him, too.
So how do we actually miss someone we’ve never met? I guess we just do, and that’s love.
I love you always, Daniel Angelo Belo.
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Dana Angela Belo, 17, is from Bulacan. She is a student at the Ateneo Senior High School.
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