Charlie’s passing hit me on multiple levels. He was my late mother’s godson, and my earliest memory of him goes back to when I was five years old, as his elder sister was my classmate in kindergarten. Our grandmothers were friends, our mothers were friends, my aunt and his mother were friends, and his sister is my kumare. His father is our ninong sa kasal.

During my elementary and high school days, I often visited their house, either to get help from Lovely with school lessons I didn’t understand or to borrow notes when I was absent. In college, I only came home during semestral breaks, Christmas breaks, and summer. I never failed to drop by their house because, even if Lovely wasn’t around, I always enjoyed talking with Ate Peyet, their mom.

As time passed, they moved to another place, and I became busier with life. Visits to the province became rarer and rarer, but among them all, I stayed in touch with Charlie through chat.

Charlie was the kind of person you could easily get along with—always cheerful and respectful. Hearing the news of his passing deeply saddened me and reminded me that our time is not our own.

How time flies. I remember when our neighborhood was not as busy as it is today. I remember our mothers attending our Parent-Teacher meetings. I remember simple birthday celebrations with childhood friends. I remember when people were more discreet about their struggles—and others respected that. I remember a time when achievements weren’t broadcast for everyone to see; only those close to the family knew when they saw the medals or trophies in person. I remember exchanging viands for lunch. I remember when people genuinely cared for and watched over each other.

That was my era, and that’s how I wish it could have stayed. Charlie’s death brings back memories of the old days in Balanga when life was a little less complicated than it is now.