Final Bow of Mary Saludares. (from Andrea's blogpost)

Going to a wake is like going to a Sunday mass - you wake up like any other day, you go about your routines, you choose what clothes to wear, blah blah blah. You arrive at the chapel just like any other day. You see all these people chatting about nothings and laughing in mirth. The comfort room's as full as any other.

Then you see her.

And everything just falls. Your nose would pick up this flowery scent, and you know you can only associate it with death. There's a certain tenseness in the atmosphere, the mourning deep inside the people that are really affected. You see the pictures of her existence that seems all too recent, all too real. And you feel the loss.

Of a friend. Of a daughter. Of a sister.

I see her but I don't feel her. I see the same body she has occupied for twenty years but that can never be her. Devoid of life, of breath, of vivacity - that's no Mary. I can see her clearer in the memories of her smiles and laughter, of her scolding and her antics. I can still remember her quite clearly. Can still remember her alive.

About three years ago, we shared the same classroom. English 11 seatmates. She had always been the better student. And now, while I'm still confined to similar rooms, she had already traveled countless miles to dance on remarkable stages. She's the most accomplished of all my high school classmates. She has done what some of us are afraid to do, she pursued her dreams.

Little recognition was given to her. Humbly, she kept a low profile. She had shined on a myriad of theaters, yet no words had spread. And as we last see her, that’s when they realize her worth. A bit too late to make up for your letdown, my alma mater.

There's a little comfort that she died doing what she loves. A tragic story that's bittersweet. It was an accident that no one can comprehend. The third lane of Edgewood now holds more meaning. I do not wish to be morbid but they said she flew a few feet. Mangled. I can't help but wonder, maybe she chose this path. Maybe she cannot part with her dance. Dancing was her life and she cannot live without it. Maybe...but it's not for me to tell.

I brought my camera. For some reason, I know I should. I know Mary would have loved to join the Kodak moments. And at each shot, I think 'do we need to lose one of us to meet up again?' I took pictures of my friends in the wake, not to remember the tragedy but to learn from it. Every moment does count. Life is full of the unexpected and most of the time they are the unhappy ones. As each second pass, we lose the chance to achieve our dreams. The few moments that we live define us. And Mary was able to define herself clearly and touch our lives.

As her last show filled the screen, we all saw the Mary that we all knew. Full of grace and passion, she was dancing her heart out. She was excellent. Every move was enveloped with emotion, every wave of her hand was graceful. And every time we hear the word 'ballerina', we'd all remember Mary and how she loved her craft.

Going to a wake is like going to a Sunday mass - you meet people, you sing with the music, you listen with your heart.

Then, you move on with what you've learned.

***Thank you Mary for being an inspiration.

Up yet another stage that I know you'd conquer
You live your passion, you live your dreams
As I watched mesmerized by your grace
I imprinted the memory of your face.

The rhythm never dies.
The beats never fade.
The dancing never ends.

~More photos on http://malb17.multiply.com/photos/album/52/Glimpse