The diary I just tore up covered an entire month in the year 2005. At that time Ivy was still alive, my son Chito was sending me records of our managed finances, we recently acquired our Saint Dominic candle holders, I recorded all of the messages Tim Dacanay sent me while his wife was in hospital ("Nasa ICU na si Gamay. Makina lang ang bumubuhay sa kaniya.") and, as usual, the pages were filled with drawings and hand-made greeting cards that my little granddaughters gave me. All of those moments flashed before me while I was tearing up the pages.
So why was I writing all those diaries all of those years? I ask myself.
And I myself came upon the answer, To destroy them past the age of 65.