in the specs stand where echoes of laughter once danced,
where boots struck pavement in perfect unison,
where fridays were more than just days-
i found a family.
week after week, you stood before us,
voices steady, unwavering,
teaching us not just knots and lashings,
but how to hold things together
when everything felt like it was coming undone.
judith ma’am, turning her head to laugh
before saying “semula” with that familiar firmness.
sharmaine ma’am, barely stifling a smile,
regaining composure the moment she faced us again.
lorraine ma’am, grinning, watching,
sometimes giving up and walking away laughing—
because some mistakes were too ridiculous to fix.
rachel ma’am, ever watchful, ever strong,
cancis ma’am, sharp and disciplined, never letting us falter,
zoe ma’am, a quiet strength in the chaos.
you led us through drills and commands,
through the sweat and strain of pt,
through the endless practice of knots and lashings—
each lesson not just a skill, but a mark you left on us.
“semula,” you’d say, again and again,
until every motion became second nature,
until discipline was not just a word, but a part of who we were.
and we grumbled, exhausted, but we obeyed—
because we knew you only wanted the best for us.
and then the camp—
the sleepless night, the aching limbs,
the whispered jokes in the dark,
the last moments before the goodbye
we weren’t ready for.
i still hear your voices in the silence of the parade square,
feel your presence in the knots i tie,
see your footsteps in every drill i command.
but when i turn around, you are not there.
i just want to stand beside you again.
to hear your laughter, your orders, your teasing remarks.
to run one more lap, do one more push-up,
to relive one more friday under your watchful eyes.
but time moves forward, and so must i.
maybe i will never hear you call out my name again,
never have you fix my uniform, never see you in the ranks beside me.
but maybe, just maybe,
i can carry you forward—
not in presence,
but in the strength you left behind.
