I remember that fateful Sunday morning clearly in my head, three years to this day. I was woken up from deep slumber by a familiar ringtone, a call from Tita Lucille via Facebook’s messenger. I had an inkling it was a call to be dreaded. I never get phone calls from family not preceded by a forewarning. Therefore, I concluded that particular call was ominous. I picked up, groggily.
“Gang, si Papa ba, wala na.” Said Tita Lucille in a somber but calm tone. From the words that followed I gathered he died peacefully in his sleep. They were on the way to the farm to see my Lola and make arrangements.
“Ok Ta Cil. Pila tungaan ta?” Every time I recall my response, I’m bemused. I knew perfectly well what that phone call meant. My Lolo – ever dearest to me, my very own superman – had died. But where did my mind drift to? Funeral expenses. Later on, I remember telling my family to try go through his lottery stash, he might have just left a life-changing winning ticket behind. My wry humour, sometimes out of place, drew chuckles. He was an avid and loyal customer of the PCSO.
When it finally hit me, I began to sob – shaking, uncontrollable sobs. I don’t recall talking to anyone in the immediate aftermath. I recall emailing my boss to let him know I’ll have to fly home that week, it was around Chinese New Year so there were holidays to be had. I told him I’ll be coming to work the next day to do what urgently needed to be done. The first flight out I could get was not until late that Monday evening anyway. I remember getting “stay strong” messages from a handful of colleagues. I remember responding politely but mentally chastising myself for forgetting to make it known to my boss I didn’t want any one else to know. I thought it was implied. Things like that are private. I preferred to grieve in private too.
Sometimes I wonder if my reaction was a reflection of who I am – pragmatic, logical and as of late, less prone to hysterics. Or a reflection of the life that my grandfather lived. Or perhaps both because I was his granddaughter after all. He passed on quietly, without fuss. He didn’t suffer, and even if he did, he didn’t dare let it show. He was stubborn almost to a fault. He wasn’t sickly but when he was ill, he abhorred being confined into hospitals and fought with nurses to be discharged even against his doctor’s orders. He always got his way. Even in his death.
The days that followed were a bit of a frenzy. I was astounded by the amount of people who came to pay respects, relatives from distant provinces, old colleagues, old friends, even local politicians I didn’t know he knew. I wanted to dismiss the latter as a PR exercise but perhaps not, my Lolo was not in any way influential. Anyhow, I was amazed at how much he was well liked and loved by the community. I was saddened by how little I knew of his life before he was Lolo. Yet I was grateful to be given the chance to see snippets. Through his sisters, children, relatives, friends, and my own personal experience, I learned his loyalty and generosity were boundless. That when things got tough, when his seven children needed to be fed and put through school and his meagre salary as a government employee wasn’t enough, he heeded the difficult call to go to Saudi to seek for better prospects. He signed his postcards “With love and devotion, Papa”. A true family man.
He loved food. But I didn’t realise food was his love language. The stories and testimonies heard during the wake somehow always involved food. That he loved inviting people to eat, even when all he could offer was nilung-ag nga saging. Now that I think about it, he always beamed around food. And so do I, years on. When I eat good food, I remember him.
He was fun. He loved to laugh and he had an infectious smile that I now often notice in myself, my aunts, uncles and cousins. It sure as hell did not come from my grandmother because that woman is tough to crack. Decorum is her favourite word. Perhaps it was precisely this joyfulness that made mourning bearable. I was comforted by the thought that he left this earthly life with joy and peace in his heart.
There is so much more that can be said about the man that was my grandfather. He wasn’t perfect. He had a fiery temperament in a way that I do, at times. But he had a big heart for me, our family and the people around him. He was cheerful, kind, loving and, most of all, proud. Proud of his family and proud of the life he had lived.
I miss him but I take refuge in the thought that those we truly love are never ever really gone from us.
Hoy, kahilibi lagi ni. 😢