From Cecilia Brainard: I am sharing my story, THE VIRGIN'S LAST NIGHT, as part of my Love Stories Series featured in this blog. Earlier stories posted include Nikki Alfar's THE MECHANISM OF MOVING FORWARD and Geronimo Tagatac's A SIMPLE GRACE.
My story, THE VIRGIN'S LAST NIGHT, was inspired by an unmarried aunt whose beau from her youth came around late in their lives, when he was a widower, and she still
unmarried. She had spent most of her life taking care of her younger unmarried sister. In Cebu, they were referred to as the Old Maids living on Mango Avenue. My aunt sent the man
away, ridiculing him (her nieces and nephews assumed) -- Are you out of
your mind? At our age?
One day when I was already writing stories, I remembered my aunt and her old beau, and I wrote the “The Virgin’s Last Night.” The story flowed, with few revisions.
This story first appeared in Going Home to a Landscape: Writings by Filipinas (Calyx Books); it also appeared in Growing Up Filipino II: More Stories for Young Adults (PALH & UST PH. It is part of my short story collection, Vigan and Other Stories (Anvil), and my Selected Short Stories (PALH and UST PH).
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BIO: Cecilia Manguerra
Brainard is the author and editor of over 22 books. She has written three
novels: When the Rainbow Goddess Wept, Magdalena,
and The Newspaper Widow. Her recent books include her Selected Short Stories and Growing
Up Filipino 3: New Stories for Young Adults. Two books she edited were released
in 2025: How I Became a Writer: Essays by Filipino and Filipino American
Writers, and Step Into Our Kitchens: Theresian Recipes and Tales.
She has forthcoming translations in Greek, Japanese, Portuguese, Macedonian, Arabic, Serbian, Slovenian and Azerbaijan, in addition to earlier translations of her work in Turkish and Finnish.
She received an Outstanding Individual Award from Cebu, a California Arts Council Fellowship, a Brody Arts Fund, several travel grants from the US Embassy, National Book Award, Cirilo Bautista Prize, travel grant from the National Book Development Board, and others.
Cecilia taught at UCLA, USC, California State Summer School for the Arts, and the Writers’ Program at UCLA Extension. She served as Executive Board member and Officer of PEN, PAAWWW (Pacific Asian American Women Writers West), Arts & Letters at the Cal State University LA, PAWWA (Philippine American Woman Writers and Artists), among others.
She also runs a small press, PALH or Philippine American Literary House (palhbooks.com). Her official website is https://ceciliabrainard.com.
THE VIRGIN’S LAST NIGHT
Copyright by Cecilia Manguerra Brainard. All rights reserved.
FOUR
MONTHS AFTER PETRA SANTIAGO DIED, and the night before her own death, Meding Santiago
got out of bed, reached for her rosary by the side table and started reciting
the Creed. It was almost midnight, and she was saying the rosary that Thursday
for the second time. Since Petra died, she slept poorly, her mind fixed on the
image of her younger sister on the hospital bed, waving her bony fingers in
front of her face before she finally stopped breathing. Sometimes she would
forget that Petra was gone, and she would pour another cup of hot chocolate or
turn to say something to no one, and she would be surprised at the depth of her
grief.
She was on her knees, with her eyes closed, when
she heard a soft knock on the door. She rose and walked to the door. She opened
it, expecting one of the servants, and was surprised at the figure of an old
man. It took Meding a second before she caught her breath and said, “Mateo,
what are you doing here? You’re dead.”
“Here to see you, Meding. It’s been a long time,”
replied Mateo, standing first on one foot, then shifting his weight to the
other, a man embarrassed.
“Well,” Meding said, clutching her nightdress at
the collar, uncertain about what to do, what to say, uncertain about her sanity
at the moment.
“You’re not crazy,” Mateo went on. “I’m
dead. I know, it’s strange, but that’s
how it is sometimes. I have to get back before sunrise.”
“Oh,” Meding said, accepting this explanation
with some kind of relief. Ever since her sister’s death, life had taken on the
quality of a dream, and Mateo’s presence was just another strange event. She
squinted at the figure by the doorway. “You’ve gotten old, Mateo,” she said,
“and paunchy too.”
“You’re just as beautiful.” Mateo hung his head
the way he used to as a young man, many years ago.
Meding laughed and walked over to the armoire mirror to study her image. “Mateo, you and I know I’m no spring chicken.
