There is a particular loneliness in grief when distance stands between sorrow and farewell. For me, that loneliness is made sharper by the fact that, because of travel restrictions, I cannot go home to pay my respects to a man I deeply admired. And so I do what writers have always done when presence is denied them: I turn to words, inadequate though they may be, and hope they are enough to honor Edgard Cabangon.

I first met him when I was still in college. In the years that followed — nearly 15 of them — he became a mentor to me. Even from afar, and even in the brief intervals of my study breaks, his presence remained constant in my life. I always looked forward to visiting him and his partner, Sharon Tan. Those visits were never empty social calls. They were moments of warmth, generosity, and quiet learning that I came to value deeply.

What struck me most about him was not simply that he was wise, but that he wore his wisdom lightly. He was humble and welcoming, never imposing, never theatrical. Each time I saw him, I came away with something worth keeping — a brief insight, a practical truth, a small but lasting nugget of wisdom. Some people fill a room with power; he filled it with calm, with thoughtfulness, with a kind of dignity that asked for no attention and yet naturally earned respect.

I admired him for that.

I remember especially how he would ask me about law school. It was never a perfunctory question, never mere politeness. He genuinely wanted to know how I was doing, how I was enduring, whether I was pressing on. And always, in one form or another, he would remind me that there was nothing more important than finishing school. It was advice delivered without fanfare, but with the force of conviction. He knew the value of perseverance, and he wanted others to know it too.

When he spoke about his own days at UST Law, the conversations would often turn light. We would laugh about the peculiar burdens of law students — the exhaustion, the absurdities, the endless small trials that somehow become part of one’s formation. But beneath the humor was something deeper: the understanding that struggle has its purpose, and that endurance, in the end, shapes character.

That was his gift as a mentor. He did not merely instruct; he encouraged. He did not simply speak; he invested himself in the lives of others. In a world where many are eager to be heard, he was one of those rare men whose words carried weight because they came from sincerity, discipline, and care.

The public will rightly remember Edgard Cabangon for the breadth of his work, for the institutions he led, and for the responsibilities he carried with distinction. But those of us fortunate enough to have known him personally will remember something that cannot be measured by titles or enterprises. We will remember his humility. We will remember his warmth. We will remember the quiet constancy with which he guided, encouraged, and believed in others.

It is a painful thing not to be home at a time like this. There is a helplessness in absence that no explanation can soften. Yet perhaps remembrance, honestly offered, is also a form of presence. Perhaps gratitude, set down in words, can travel where we cannot.

So I offer these words for the man I admired, for the mentor who stayed with me through the years, and for the kindness I will always remember.

May Edgard Cabangon rest in peace.