I lost a loved one a few days ago and I never got the chance to personally say my goodbye. My thoughts canvas sadness, love, acceptance and openness. My usual-self one moment, tearing the next. My mood changes depending on how much and which memories I could recall of my time spent with that person. He is very close to my heart and has played a huge part molding my character, especially during my childhood.
He has olive skin, one of the true marks of pure and proud Filipino. I have always remembered him with wrinkly face, big nose, gentle lazy brown eyes and gray hair. He goes to the same barber shop and gets the same hair cut, short crew cut. Every afternoon he would go for a walk, dressed in khaki pants and immaculately ironed collar shirt in earthly tones. His shoes are always polished until they shine. No, he doesn’t look grand, simply clean and proper, standing tall as if honor and honesty emits from his very core and enveloping his whole body like a super-hero cape. As soon as he steps out of the house, our neighbors will greet him “Ka Jessie” (Ka being a shortened word for Kaka, meaning brother) followed by an honorific nod and a gentle smile which he then mirrors to complete the exchange of greetings. This may explain why he feels very tired even after a short walk. When I was younger I thought it was because he was getting older, but as I grew up I realized that everyone knew him in bayan (town), and that every errand for him was like catching up with everyone. Random people visiting randomly aren’t as random as I thought, come to think of it. Townspeople seek out his counsel. He’s not rich or held in a high ranking position, but there must be something about him or about his history that made everyone in town acknowledge him, which up to this very day I do not know. But for me, he was a normal old person, my wise and gentle grandfather.
When I was seven, I was a sucker for bedtime stories, my parents who were away at that time sent us books like Alice in Wonderland, The Little Mermaid and The Jungle Book. My granddad would read these stories to us. When he did, our imaginations got a full workout. My granddad would provoke our thoughts by asking questions like ‘what would you do if you were the heroine of the story? What if you were the villain? What would you change about this story?’ He encouraged questions because he said it was a sign that we were listening, and if we listened he would tell us another story, and that meant staying up for another hour. It became a habit for us, the whole listen-then-question tandem and we took it to school, we became confident in recitations and developed a knack for annoying teachers and school mates by asking questions, perhaps too many. Then came that time to practice cursive writing in grade school. For a couple of days I would come home crying because it took forever for me to finish a whole writing exercise. I thought my teachers then were the meanest people on earth because they wouldn’t let me go home until I finished my cursives. I got bullied and told that I was dumb because I wrote so slow. I told this to my granddad, I couldn’t remember what he told me or how he encouraged me, but I remembered sitting side by side with him at his study table, practicing cursive writing. I was so impressed by how beautiful his cursives were, nothing like my crooked and misaligned writing. His hand and elbow movement flowed like it was detached from his body, gracefully dancing on its own. In one smooth motion, he changed hands from right and started writing with his left hand, the letters that he wrote were more beautiful than the first ones. My eyes widened and I remembered my heart skipping a beat. He asked me to write using my left hand, and the rest was history.
Most of the memories I recall with Tatay (meaning father, also what I call my granddad) are happy moments. When I close my eyes and picture him, I can clearly see his smiling face. When I was young and my parents were away I never felt lonely because he was there. Looking back I can’t help but feel so much gratitude for all the things he’s done for us, there were so many. Because of him my childhood was full of rich experiences. But how do you really say thank you when you want to say more than a thank you, with your throbbing heart wanting to speak instead of your mouth? Usually I give a hug or a sincere gentle stare, but for obvious reason I am not able to give this to Tatay now.
What comforts me at this very moment is the thought that he partly raised me up and I have made wonderful memories with him, thanking God that at least I had that opportunity. I bet I even have habits that I picked up from him, whatever it is, his legacy will live on, someone will tell stories about him and others will get to know him, because I live and I will carry on for him.
