I told myself I will be writing about this when I’m ready. But the thing with death, with such finality…One never gets over it. We just learn to live with it...
I’ve learned long ago that it is a lot harder to write about somebody I am close with. That’s because, I see more of the complexities of the person: what makes that person a part of my life aside from our being family to the flaws and the peculiarities. The last days, I wasn’t thinking much, just feeling a lot of emotions: Grief particularly. My lolo had been ill for quite a while, and although we knew the inevitable was coming, nothing can really prepare a person when death of a loved one finally arrives. There is the cold numbness that is brought by their absence and the helplessness of knowing that no amount of pain and tears can bring them back.
When you lose someone, the first thing you think about is his voice. I kept replaying his in my mind, over and over again, lest I forget. Then I remembered about his favorite “pambahay” khaki shorts, his white shirts while cooking, his favorite brown sandals, how particular he was with his grooming and how I never saw him with an untucked shirt, his scent, his love for all things designer, his cooking, his booming laughter. I then realized you never really forget about these little things.
My cousins and I were all huddled together for the last few days. Seemingly finding comfort from each other knowing we were all going thru the same thing. A lot can be said about our tatay, for all his achievements and shortcomings, but one thing is certain: His best role was that of a Grandfather. We were all lolo’s fans. My tatay was a looker, a handsome man in his heyday. He was 6 feet tall; considered tall nowadays, even more strapping during his time. He had always been stylish, proud and exacting with his presence: A proud self-made man who rose from humble beginnings. I watched helplessly, for the last few months his declining health and mental state until about a few weeks ago, he was just but a shadow of what he used to be. In the end, he went out with the same aplomb and style he lived his life: in a Rolls Royce.
My cousins and I were walking the long, lonely stretch side by side under the searing afternoon sun, tears in our eyes as we were leading our tatay to his last mass. This seemed familiar. I thought about our countless road trips and masses together in his favorite Manaoag, how I loved to hold his hand while walking to the church and how even more proud he was as if he was the only person in the world who had grandchildren. But this time, I was holding on to his casket, not his hand.
I looked at my tatay for the last time and looked at my cousins’ equally grief-stricken faces, quite blurry with the veil of tears in my eyes
and I understood. We were not only saying goodbye to him, but also to our childhood. An era has ended. The best thing about memories, they remind us of the better days when the present is bleak. Someday, I may forget how his laughter sounded like... but I will never forget how it made me so happy.
