Lolo's Wake

NOTE: This is an autobiographical short story. Being a Filipino myself, I decided to use some Filipino words. I decided to use "Lolo" (meaning grandfather) as a way of indicating how I called my grandfather in real life instead of using a direct English translation. The word "barong" is used once in this story. "Barong" is the national male dress of the Filipinos and is worn by a dead man at his wake or funeral.  

LOLO’S WAKE

Ma’am Parnala’s was the first wake I have ever been to. I was 16. I remember her pale figure under the glass of her casket. Her calmness is a betrayal of how stern and, at times, livid she could be when she was our first year adviser. She looked unusually heftier at her death, as if some parts of her body appear inflated. I figured it was death taking its toll on her body. But a part of me also considered she just became naturally heavier during the two years that I haven’t seen her. After viewing her, I sat myself down along with my classmates. We sat on monoblock chairs as we chirp on the biscuits that were given to us by the relatives of Ma’am Parnala. I was positioned beside Thia. What she said to me next is the reason I remember this day so much.

“You’re here just because you want to experience one,” I can’t imagine she would have said this in verbatim, but that was her thought. Thia was one of the two thesis partners I had for my senior year in high school. We weren’t particularly close the previous years of our high school but working together made us closer in a way you become naturally closer to co-workers. Yet in the sort of amicable yet impersonal relationship we shared, I wonder how she could read me so well. I came not because Ma’am Parnala was our deceased first year high school adviser, I came simply because I have never been to one. And I wanted to know what it would feel like. The cynic within me makes me feels like I would have never gone if it wasn’t my first. Because when my Lolo died, I never went to his.

Lolo’s death would have been the third wake I could have gone to. I was 22.

The time Papa went to Manila to care for Lolo at his final days, I preferred to stay home. Much worse, I asked permission to invite some of my friends for an overnight. I told him four of my classmates were coming for a project. Papa was reluctant most of the times about this kind of arrangements, but he agreed after back and forth negotiations. He, however, never knew that twice the amount I have asked for came for two days and two nights for the “overnight”. I don’t recall feeling bad about my machination. My friends didn’t even know about Lolo dying. I can only remember one friend asking the reason for my Papa’s absence, so I told the reason why.

Skipping Lolo’s wake would make it look like he and I had issues- but quite the opposite. Lolo was very dear to me and I have fond memories of him. He was one of the most important persons in my life, one of the closest, one of the most supportive of me.

I remember these small memories I have with him. It’s always the most casually little memories that I seem to remember the most. I remember him dressing me for daycare; my feet fighting against Lolo’s hands as he tried to slide my socks on them. He bit my toes in annoyance. I remember him feeding me every lunch; his fingers were poking on my cheeks as he urges me to swallow the food I was refusing to bring down on my throat. I remember so much. As I became older, he moved away from our house but I remember his weekly visits to our house. He and Papa would go to the casino to play Bingo every Sunday. I rarely went with them, but I remember the burgers they brought home.

I remember my college days where I lived with him in his apartment in Manila. There was a time that I wanted to produce a short film with him as the lead opposite to a childhood friend of mine who would act as her granddaughter. He accepted the role with payment as a mere pack of cigarette for the trip. For the shoot, we had to hike a mountain in Zambales. We were late for our bus so we needed to wait two more hours for the next one. Even though we departed around 2am, this cost us an untimely start for our assault as the sun was already up in the sky. Already taxed by the searing heat and dry air, I was even more encumbered by the equipment I had to take up the mountain. I clearly underestimated the difficulty of the trail, let alone the production of the film. I took a bus home without a single clip to bring home for the edit. Though the scorching trail and the burdening bags of my equipment were merely memories of pain, I went home with my shoulder at pain still the same for I had to carry the weight of my defeat. I had a lot of time recover my strength in our trip home. Lolo and I talked about movies and food to pass time. This remarkably ordinary memory holds a special place in my heart. Parents and grandparents have a knack of reprimanding children for irresponsibility. But Lolo was different, he didn’t bother. Not once did he say anything to preach me- to make me realize the impracticality of my passion, the futility of my attempts. Not once did he say how I wasted his time or how I wasted my own money. He simply reminded me that I had not bought him his pack of cigarettes.

I remember so much. So I find it very confusing why I decided not to attend his wake. I probe this selfish heart and try to understand why I didn’t take the time. Sure there was school. But I could have just written an excuse letter. But the problem was within the validity of my reason. Lolo wasn’t really my grandfather, wasn’t even really Papa’s father.

Lolo was Papa’s best friend. They met when they were younger and lived together with Daddy (my other parent) in a boarding house. Daddy and Lolo had differences that put them on odds with each other. What little reputation Lolo had with Daddy diminished atomically when Lolo was incriminated for a couple of years. But he still came to visit us and Papa afterwards his stint at prison. Papa and Lolo had this bond that kept on pulling them back together no matter how far they sprung from one another. And this bond would extend to me. My entire life, I accepted Lolo as for what I called him- my Lolo, my grandfather. Not once did I even call him by his first name.

We do have an unconventional family. I guess the reason I had for myself for not making an excuse letter was because I felt that I couldn’t excuse myself because of my family’s unconventionality. I couldn’t just explain I had to be gone because of the death of my pseudo-grandfather which was actually just Papa’s friend. I tell that myself a lot; an easy answer out of my guilt. But during my moments of lull, when I am all alone and only have myself to judge me, I doubt the integrity of my reasoning. Explaining myself would have been difficult when I was younger. I remember my heart pounding every time I had to talk about my family. But I learned not to hide truths about myself, especially essentials truths about my identity. I knew for a fact that if I just took five seconds to actually think about it, I could have easily explained my situation. I could have elaborated on the uncomfortable details at ease, recited my autobiography as if something out of a teledrama. I could have done all and more. But I didn’t.

I try to look within. Magnify myself under the looking glass and understand my lack of gratitude. I have experiences of people telling me I was insensitive. Surely this is a pure example of my standard insensitivity. Or perhaps I just didn’t want to face death when that death concerned someone very important for me. Papa said to me Lolo’s biological daughter too did not want to see Lolo up close. But if this was the case, I don’t recall being emotionally distressed at those times, not one bit. Often I just conclude that I was being apathetic. It’s a convenient way not to ruminate what I have in my head. All these thoughts scramble up in my head until eventually, my nerves burst into short-circuit. These incompatible thoughts fight their way so I may find myself in some point towards realization. But I never reach that state of equilibrium, I merely contend myself in the inscrutability of my actions.

Tonight, I stood at our frontyard staring at our house gate and sinking myself in a feeling of regret. I came down from the house to look at the stars but ended up gazing at our gate. I notice its details, its maroon paint, its rusty handles and its height which fell a bit short of my own. The gate is two panels of iron connected by a sliding bolt on the middle and a top latch. Its engineering isn’t exact so there is a space where the two metals don’t exactly connect. In this space, I imagine Lolo.I remember a conversation I had with Mabelle, the childhood friend of mine who came with Lolo and me for the hike. We haven’t seen each other for months and she came to visit me to borrow some of my filming equipment. She didn’t know yet about Lolo’s death when she started talking about a man he was seeing at our gate. Not an ordinary man, because there was no man at all from what I was seeing. She said that the man was bald, wore a barong, and his chin was unusually bloated. He described Lolo exactly as I saw him on a photo of him in a casket. She offered me her condolences once I revealed the fact of Lolo’s death. Then she shared to me stories how she used to talk to her own dead grandfather who didn’t seem to realize that he was dead. At the close of her visit, I walked her out passing by the gate and imagining myself inches away from Lolo, or whatever abstract being remained of him. I thought of asking Mabelle to talk to him for me, but I couldn’t muster the right words to save me from sounding silly.

That gate was never the same since then. I always look at it, particularly at the space between the two panels of iron. In this space, I imagine him. Exactly as Mabelle described him. Exactly as he looked in his casket. I look on this space trying to understanding the reason why I never went. I’ve circled my thoughts a hundred times trying to get around this query, yet I never find the answer.