The lawn of verdant green invites. Two young souls tread softly, lightly, enticed by the the green, green grass made splendid by the summer sun. Sitting now under a cool canopy of branches (hey, what tree was that at Harrison Park, beside Dewey Boulevard before it got the name Roxas?) Was it yesterday or six decades ago? How the past becomes the present in the mind. Omniscient.

Harrison Park was one of the places where my husband Rudy and I would dissect to bare thread the movie we had just seen or the book we had just read before hopping on to the double-decker that went around Luneta, the Manila Hotel, and environs. Time flew by, and the double-decker was gone along with our infrequent rides as the three kids came one after the other — Rose, Roderick, and Randy were all born in Manila. Raileen, the youngest, is the true Ilongga. Long intro to the title of this column, a quote from William Wordsworth's poem, Intimations of Immortality. A truly awesome ode that if this non-poet gets the audacity to re-title it, it would be Intimations to Mortality because Rudy is no longer around to enjoy with me the splendor in the grass. Oh, well...

Wordsworth is British as you can see in his spelling of splendour in these brilliant lines I picked from the lengthy ode: Though nothing can bring back the hour/Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;/We will grieve not, rather find/Strength in what remains behind;/In the primal sympathy /Which having been must ever be;/In the soothing thoughts that spring/Out of human suffering;/ In the faith that looks through death,/In years that bring the philosophic mind.

What is even more significant to this quotation is that the lines were embroidered on a piece of white cloth, framed, and gifted to me by a friend simply because I love this part of the poem. The lines ran like they were her very own handwriting. It hangs in the bedroom of our house in the old home town. Thank you, dear Rosita. Like what you said, the journey has ended [for Rudy].

Ah, the philosophic mind. Brings me to go philosophical to assuage the feeling of loss of a loved one. I reflect on what philosophers have expounded, what novelists, poets have to say to lessen the pain. And to go into the bottom of what my nephew has emailed: "Doon naman tayo lahat paroroon." Indeed. So be it. A weak "Amen." Lame, one will have to admit.

Splendor in the Grass struck a heartstring because it was one of the many movies Rudy and I enjoyed together. Can't remember now whether or not we watched it before or after we had finally gotten the wedding ring on our finger. The movie surfaced from deep memory when I found NATALIE, a book bearing the stunning NatalieWood on the cover. It was a memoir written by her sister Lana Wood. Profusely illustrated with photographs, it cost me a dollar at the Oakland Senior Center consignment store. (More about the Senior Center in succeeding columns.) Leafing through the pages was a trek down memory lane. There was a photo of Natalie with co-star Warren Beatty in Splendor in the Grass, with James Dean in Rebel Without a Cause, and with Richard Beymer in West Side Story. All three films Rudy and I had watched together in the springtime of our lives.

Natalie Wood and James Dean both had tragic ends — the former drowned while partying, and the latter in a vehicular accident. It was said that in their yacht named Splendour, friends and husband Robert Wagner were thick on drinks and conversation. Natalie, who was taking on the night breeze, had one-too-many, slipped, fell overboard and drowned, unnoticed by the company. She was 43, a Hollywood star in full blossom. James Dean was 24, nipped in the bud of a stellar future.

Yes, Mr. Wordsworth, though nothing can bring back the hour of splendor in the grass, we will grieve not; rather find strength in what remains behind... And, with compassion that knows no bounds, he ends his poem thus:

Another race hath been, and other palms are won.

Thanks to the human heart by which we live,

Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,

To me the meanest flower that blows can give

Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

( This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it )