a writer has passed

The Hall of Justice was a cold place, its air steeped in severity. But when I entered his office and met him, the atmosphere shifted. Atty. Ernesto Superal Yee, born on 29 October 1953 in Tanjay, Negros Oriental, was not only gentle but quietly guiding. I still remember the first words he said to me: “Are you happy?” Like anyone meeting an important person they had long known of but never met, I shrugged and replied, “I think so.” 

He could be sharp with his words, though always restrained. As a lawyer who served as Clerk of Court V at the Regional Trial Court, Branch 32 of Dumaguete City, such firmness must have been necessary at times. I witnessed this side of him during the National Writers Workshops. Ernie, as many fellows and colleagues called him, was among those who questioned the point of my poem “The Other Ending,” written for a campus competition the year before. He was also one of those who questioned changes in the workshop itself, such as the two-week schedule instead of the usual three. During my time as a fiction fellow, he lambasted my work and magnified its weaknesses. Yet on the night that followed (culmination night!) he was also the one who offered a flat of Tanduay to every fellow seated along the long table at Hayahay Resto. Ernie was cool. That air of superiority must be his veiled way of reminding us to set our egos aside. 

A few weeks ago, during a short break in a session of the 48th workshop batch, I gave him a copy of Dark Blue Southern Seas, the literary folio of The Weekly Sillimanian, where two of his works were published. I wrote in the dedication, “Thanks for swimming with us in this sea.” He replied, “I hope we could do this literally—but I am old!” He laughed like a child. His infectious mirth dispelled the seriousness lingering in the antiquated room of Katipunan Hall after the previous discussion. His dear “sister,” Susan Lara, and I laughed along. Returning to my seat, I thought how glad I was to have worked with him. 

The good moments kept coming. Ned Parfan, a former writing fellow, later told me that on our way to Montemar to visit Mom Edith Tiempo and attend her lecture, Ernie shared that his new poetry collection was already with publishers and might come out that year. It was exciting news. Though arthritic fingers had stopped him from making music on the piano, he continued to write prose and poetry. There are sentences and verses more melodious than any sound drawn from strings, because they come straight from the mind and heart.

Then, as time so often proves unpredictable, a distinct note faded. On the afternoon of May 23, I received news that Ernie had died of a heart attack that morning, in his bed. I was in shock, suspended in something almost surreal. Just hours earlier, I had been reciting his poem aloud to people who cared deeply for musicality in words for a public reading. This was not new for his work. His poem “A Prayer for Yuan” remains a favorite of mine, one that resonates deeply with my own heartbeat. I share here its final stanza:

Lord bless this one with a heart

Burning with compassion and sympathy,

Accepting as to why some trees, like his uncle,

Choose to bear flowers instead of fruits.

Sir Ernie Yee, the flowers you bore on this land went beyond any superlative of beauty. A poet’s spark may have gone suddenly, but in its living brilliance, it allowed others to light their own candles. Thank you for all the help.