I was at the proper distance enough to see what was happening at the kitchen. My mother placed the saucer containing suman and biscuits in the middle of the lighted candles just opposite to my grandmother’s photograph. I moved only when my mother instructed us to step outside as she sprinkled ashes on the kitchen floor. I was holding my stare to the ashes mixing with the dirt in the house, because I wanted to make a note of the process. I walked backwards and suddenly felt a quiver of excitement; because any moment after the ritual, my grandmother would “walk” with us. I sensed the strands of hair at the back of my neck stood.
That was the 9th day since my grandmother died. The women including my mother was overwhelmed in prayers while my sister, my brother and I were silenced; because, we neither do know what to do nor where to positioned ourselves amidst the solemnity of the house. I was distracted looking at my Lola’s photo. According to the tradition, the ashes indicated if a visitor has walked around, because it would show footmarks on the floor. I wondered how the ashes, prayers and food would send the soul to visit the living. I never go beyond that curiosity neither forced into believing in spirits returning to eat a cup of meal. What was important for me was that we were able to offer our respect to her.
I was inattentive about how long I stared at the photo. If Lola was here, she would have asked me for a cup of coffee. At least, I have something worthwhile to do. I stood up. If Lola was here, she would have asked me to bring her to her room. My shoulders would have become numb by now. I sighed and I wandered around the house. If Lola was here, she would have told a story about engkantos and ghosts wandering inside the house. I went upstairs, hoping to do something worthwhile while I waited.
I saw the Rebisco container again. It seemed ordinary and worthless together with the boxes and plastic wares shelved at our bodega. But, I immediately recognized the red pail because I was familiar to the illustration of cheerful children riding the merry-go-round and how that brand of biscuit became a culture inside the house. I opened the container and smelled the unpleasant breath it has kept for three years. I was not expecting to find wafer and biscuits that were usually in it. I was after the remembrances which supported my longing of a person I never wanted to forget.
For some reason, her scent—a spirit of the sea mixed with sweat and talc powder was preserved in the container. When I smelled it, I was immediately reminded of my grandmother especially on the day we first met and the days we spent together. I was seven and I only knew my grandmother from my parent’s stories. We met already because I saw her in some of my baby pictures. I hid behind my mother despite she prepared for welcoming. Nevertheless, I have to be forgiven of forgetting her face and for the uncomfortable meeting. I gestured forward, received her hand for a mano and embraced her. There, I gave in to her warm bosom and delighted in to her summer salty scent. I knew, from that day, that grandmother will have to live with us based from the bulk I noticed at the gate. There, I saw three sacks of coconuts, saba, root crops, vegetables; and another two sacks of rice. The boxes were filled with assorted items too. I was not familiar of their names, but I saw a variety of distorted and colorful shells and some sea creatures such as the dark cocoon-like mollusk, and the relative of shrimps but have the body of a centipede. I was more amazed when all of these funny-looking creatures were edible. Grandmother cooked them into a creamy coconut stew. No matter how the bowl of seafood soup looked unhealthy to our eyes, it was a taste of the barrio life. My grandmother brought it into our house the most natural food we ever had.
I never sensed from my father the same curiosity we experienced; except, I felt his craving for the familiar exotic food. It did not occur to my mind how my father longed for his mother like what he has sympathized for the delicacy prepared in our table.
She did not visit the barrio for two years because my father decided that traveling was unfit for her age, unless someone from the family went with her. But, father was busy in his work, my siblings and I were studying, and mother was indispensible in the house. Lola had her chance; when one summer, everyone was suddenly free. My father was right. Going to the barrio was strenuous. We left the house in the morning, and had been exhausted by the end of the two-hour bumpy bus ride. Then, we still had to endure the next two-hour sea trip. I had been vomiting when I saw the boat which we boarded. It was a bigger version of a fishing boat because of the “katig”. But the captain’s cabin, the deck, the roof which housed the row of seats, and the engine found at back area made it a transportation vessel. It has a capacity of about 65 passengers and still has a room for baggages such as the sacks of charcoal, coconuts and other crops, banyeras of fish and barrels of oil or gasoline. Getting on the boat was a challenge. We have to walk into a plank board, a mock up bridge connecting the pier and the deck of the boat. My mother was never used to it despite she had traveled to the barrio. However, my sister, my brother and I had to be lifted all the way across the bridge by my father. I would have fallen into the sea if I tried to walk into the board. Inside the small ship, I was suffocated from the mixture of the gasoline fish odor and the smell of salt from sea. Furthermore, I was uncomfortable sitting on the banko which were only good lumber attached to several beam/posts. The actual sea trip was another challenge. The small ship was gliding into the big waves which splashed water inside. It was fun at first, but in the long run, I was again vomiting. Nevertheless, amidst all those trials getting into the island, my grandmother remained calm and silent. In the end, my father was wrong. My eighty year old Lola was fit to travel.
I was nine and was old enough to draw from my observation an image of my grandmother as a social person. She would have earned Doña as a title. As soon as we arrived at the barrio, a crowd aligned by the shore. Those people had been waiting for her since she left the village to live with us in the city. They were farmers, fishermen, tenants, relatives and friends who were witnesses to her life in the barrio. “Kamusta na Mimay”, they asked her. Then, I busied myself looking around the barrio. My grandmother owned some hectares of land which included the residential lots, the farm, and the coconut plantations. She was not rich and did not claim the ownership, herself. Instead, she allowed families to build their house and farm on her land. The people’s gratefulness became more evident when, we reached my grandmother’s house. My grandmother was delighted that her house was well. The people had been taking care of the place. Not only that, some families have prepared food for her. They brought inihaw na kwaw, nilupak na kamoteng kahoy and some fruits. We could have survived in the island with just the ration of food coming from the neighborhood.
***
I searched intently for another item and found the photograph of my dear Lola Mimay. I studied it. She was wearing a white bestida with a belt around her thin waist. Although her face has a pair of thick-framed eye glasses, she still got the attractiveness men would look from a woman—a balanced beauty, in and out. Her classic, long eyebrow curved perfectly down which emphasized her happy expression. While those half-Hispanic brown eyes accentuated her face. Her nose was beautiful and tall, and her full lips were accustomed to smile. But overall, her cheerful mood was something in her that made her beautiful. I hardly imagined that the woman in the picture was my grandmother. When I met her she was already a woman with a long grayed hair, a freckled and wrinkled face. She has those expressions of calmness. She had changed in accordance with the years that had passed; like fashion improving over the progress of time.
Geronima Vargas was born on September 29, 1913 in the distant town of Calapan, Mindoro. She finished there her primary education, and later; along with her parents moved to Rapu-Rapu Island in Legaspi, Albay. In the new environment, she encouraged studying needlework and handicrafts which were short vocations suited for girls. Eventually, there were a lot of broken hearts when she married my grandfather, Clodualdo Baluso—a cadet promoted to Master Sergeant of the Armed Forces of the Philippines after years of combat in local and foreign places. She was already 31 when they were blessed with their only child, my father. After a long delay, she moved her career forward and continued dressmaking. At some point in her career, she had students of her own.
She has nothing to wish for until; the Japanese came interrupting all her wonderful plans. Her career never achieved its splendor and my grandfather had left for national service.
I have little knowledge about the details during and after the war. But, in general, I was sure that she spent insurmountable years in the barrio where she administered the farms and coconut plantation industry. After which, the quarter of her life was spent together with us.
She walked in timely paces from her room to a particular chair found outside. My Lola grabbed the chair and dragged it beside the threshold where the sunlight reached her and where she could view the street outside. She will have requested for a cup of coffee and pandesal by the moment she saw me. My grandmother really would want extra sweet coffee, if I had not reduced the sugar each time. Whenever she noticed that I have diluted her coffee, she asked either my brother or my sister for a tablespoon of sugar. But on instances when she has no one to call, Lola will have her own access. Eventually, my mother wondered why refilling the jar of sugar has become more often. She caught grandmother in the kitchen smuggling sugar in a small plastic bag. All the while, Lola has enjoyed the coffee I prepared for her because she had sugar kept on her pocket.
***
The torn and brownish papers inside, frayed from an old notebook was another memento I found in the container. It held less information about grandmother but I saw a connection. She was like that page, desaturate from pigments and brittle, when she was in her nineties.
There was a solid thud and water splashed, one afternoon. Then, we heard a short howl after. Startled, we looked for the source of the sound. She had been lying in the wet floor beside the bowl of urine which toppled on one corner, when my mother reached her. She was brought to her bed and father examined her limbs for injuries. She was fine except she had some bruises in her elbows and knees. But that accident did not stopped her from doing what she wanted. She kept on going to the restroom despite of the urine bowl mother gave her. Not even the night has made her rest from walking. One time, I thought the lights were off downstairs. But, I saw the light was on in the bathroom. I went out my room and approached it. At a distance, I heard water poured into a pail. I was afraid to go any nearer because I did not want to see an empty bathroom. Who would be in there—at 2 am in the morning everyone was asleep, I thought to myself. My heart pondered when someone appeared behind the curtains. My grandmother was carrying her urine bowl. She has been going in and out of the bathroom again. I let my disappointment pass, and helped her way to the bed. I switched off the lights and went to my own room. The next morning, my mother asked us who have left the lights on last night. I shrugged.
Her frequent flight to the bathroom caused her accidents. She had accumulated the injuries, until such time, she had trouble balancing. She was aided from then onwards. Eventually, she was no longer a subject from a distance, but a person who needed the most intimate care and support. She often asked for my aide. Her hand pressured my shoulder and as she struggled each step. Yet, she was stronger than any woman in town. She never wanted to lie in bed the entire day. She was challenged at each dwindling days of her ninety-third year—and, for that alone was enough to identify her strength. She was incomparably greater, always, than her guide who only have to endure her weight.
I remembered how often she would complain of my brother for accidentally stepping on her foot whenever he passed by the doorway. I was amazed when she grunted about it more than the distressing passing of her time. She had lived with us until she died at an age closing to a centennial—ninety-five.
***
Still searching the container for more items, I found a small sapphire jar. The jar held, inside, a piece of cloth. It was sewed on the edges to contain an old coin which was said, the first funeral contribution for a baby boy who died on a Friday night. According to my grandmother, the charm averted all evil and bestowed luck and prosperity in business for the bearer. However, the catch was that the coin must never be put out of the cloth as the effect would diminish and the enchantment would fade. She passed the heirloom to my mother, eventually; to impart the lesson of value and to symbolize the trust and responsibility she presented upon my mother. Truly, my mother kept her promise for the blue jar had always been in good condition and had given us a prosperous livelihood.
***
The tin water container was valuable for my grandmother, too. The soldier’s water canteen was a distorted aluminum flask with black plastic cap attached to the bottle’s neck by a strap. It held special memories unknown to us because there wasn’t a day without it. She never drank water if it’s not from the special container.
I laughed at the thought that I, once in my younger years, had caused damages to the canteen. It had always slipped in my hands whenever she asked me to refill it with water every night. But no matter how valuable the item was to her, she was never infuriated. The canteen reminded me of her character who was as strong and as endurable as that item.
***
As I continue in discovering the contents of the biscuit container, I found a ball of crochet with a needle running through it. It enlightened me to a past spent crocheting and embroidering. My grandmother was passionate in needlework. She’s very good at it. She can do different patterns and designs. She used to sell her finished pieces to her friends, and those which were not sold were kept in our house. There was a time when she taught me how to do a crochet pattern, but my short patience for detail was a challenge in the task. Unlike me, she had an eye it and she worked on it slowly, and gracefully. She hated me one time, when I detangled her work, out of my frustrations and curiosity, hoping to discover how it was done. She lectured me by telling me that you cannot do a task if you hasten on finishing it. Work slowly but surely and you’ll suddenly realize that you’re actually close to accomplishing it.” Patience is a virtue”, she used to remind me.
***
Next, I found the little shells at bottom of the container. From it, I remembered those boring days spent by playing our favorite folk game, the sungka. It was a game played in an inch thick wooden elliptical board that has two sets of holes. The first set was comprised of two larger holes called payo where the player kept all his/her collected shells. The other was two paralleled row of smaller holes where the battle really took place. We played with our own mechanics. Unlike the usual play, we reduced the shells used in the game. And, the goal was to win all of your opponent’s shells just by gaining them from their side without putting anything on the payo. It was a shorter game, actually, for we could play several matches in one sitting. Despite of having played it many times, winning against my tactical grandmother was a difficult challenge. I never won twice in those consecutive matches.
***
I was perspiring inside the bodega. I had emptied the container and had put the items beside it. I looked at the rummage I made beside myself. I was waiting for my mother to call me. They were still busy at the living room, I thought. I drifted my mind again into the experiences I had with my Lola.
She gazed at the vast sky whenever she paused in between her stories, as if the clouds would form shapes into ideas for her next topic. When she looked away and be momentarily lost in thoughts, she became a silhouette in the glaring sun. Although, her recollections were mostly repetition of her experiences, she never grew tired of retelling it over and over again. Every end of a story was the beginning of another. Within a day, she would tell stories which she associated to random things inside the house. For example, she related the flower plant in the house to the coconut, macopa, star-apple and banana trees found in the barrio years ago. Then, she would tell about how she worked hard to make the kuprasan and coconut plantation profitable, how she helped in the farms, how she lost during calamities, and many more how’s and when’s. The who’s and what’s were another subject in the next stories. She recalled encounters with her classmates, acquaintances, friends, family and relatives who have danced with her during barangay fiestas, who became her kumpadres and kumares and who have stayed in her home. There were names which were hard to remember because they were unusual and unique titles—Anto, Mamerto, Kuling, Bilikit and Poto to name a few.
In the end, she had amazed us on how good her memories for remembering her past. She even recalled the feasts of the saints she knew and the places she had visited for the fiestas. But, she had always been forgetting how many times she had told us the same stories. And, I never bothered telling her to stop because I was aware that she needed it to remember.
***
I remembered when my Lola used to tease my sister with a name, Sisa. I laughed when I mistakenly thought that Sisa was the crazy character in the Rizal’s classic novel. But actually, she was referring to the name of the typhoon which ravaged the barrio during my sister’s birth. In between the words of her story, I pictured my grandmother as a devoted grandparent. The night of November 24, year 1987 was an unforgettable challenge for our growing family and most especially for my excited lola-to-be. The weather was not good and uncooperative. It was a difficult situation for my mother because she was laboring and was about to give birth to my sister. My lola have been there to support my mother, despite of the bad condition. The roof was torn apart and moments later, the house gave in and crumbled. Fortunately, they managed to evacuate the place on time before the collapse. They transferred to another house which belonged to my grandmother’s brother. The wind still blew hard and the tides rose above the shore and reached the houses. Finally, my mother gave birth to my sister. After which, my father secured my sister into a rug cloth for the lack of better dried receiver. Then, the powerful wind uprooted the walls; making them transferred to another location. They crawled outside because the roof had fallen down in them. A cousin of my father mistook the bundled rug and he had almost thrown it away. If my grandmother was not there it would have been a tragic story. My sister would have drowned in the flood. After a few hours, the storm left the area and the sea calmed.
***
I closed my eyes and imagined my grandmother laughing and smiling at me. Aside from it made me felt the again happiness of her company, I remembered an unusual spot for a keepsake—her golden tooth. One of her premolars on the right was coated in gold—a gift from her husband. I could not help but admire it because, according to her, it was a symbol of good status during her time. I was awed, yet I never wished to have one; because it was a fad suitable only in my grandmother’s time. I ridiculed about borrowing and sending her tooth to the pawn one day. I giggled when she playfully act to remove her tooth and offer her empty fist to me.
My grandmother has two secrets for reaching that age of ninety-five. First, my grandmother has a distinguishable lengthy pair of ears. I used to measure it with my fingers and then, compared it to my ear. According to my Lola, long ears were an indication that a person would have a long life. She inherited this feature from her Spanish ancestors. Her other secret was easier to achive who wishes to have a long life. She loved to eat seashells and seafood which benefitted her with a healthy body. It kept her bones stronger, helped lower the cholesterol in her body and kept the good circulation of the blood. No wonder, why she always wanted to go back and live in the island, where she can always have the hot “ginataang” clams for lunch and adobong octopus for dinner.
***
February 15 was unforgettable. That night happened four years ago. The house was solemn and somber especially at my grandmother’s bedside. It filled us with uncomfortable emotions, of pain and of lost. It was difficult to understand her speech. But, I knew what she meant. That moment when she drew her last breath, the wind outside blew so strong. And then, I saw my sister cried. My mother went to the kitchen. My father was at the living room. I forgot how I felt.
***
The last keepsake that I never knew about until the 9th day was the memory kept in those people whom we love. Through us—her family, she will always be with us in the form of memory—a keepsake that does not weather and corrode. That keepsake was more a concept and abstract, but has a more concrete juncture to my whole being. It resided deep in us until we passed it to the next generations. Unlike all the things inside that container, memories are everlasting. It will never fade so long as the person who held them remembers.
Quietly, I closed the container and listened to the snap the lid. I was thinking how my grandmother’s life had been summed into those items inside the container. I returned it back to the sheleves. My heart was fed with the sweet memories and I left having a thought in my mind: We can continue to live in the memories of those people who love us so much and in the mementos in which we engraved our unforgettable histories.
Whenever I passed by the doorsill and stopped to lull in the heat of the sun, I always longed for a person who used to sit in the same spot. I can’t help but wonder if objects, too, do long for their old masters—like that chair, for instance. Does it know that its usual occupant had been away forever? Do they feel the difference between the warmth of my palms and my grandmother’s as I held them. They were inanimate objects but they have served well—like this sepia of photographs that has no ability to recall but has the capacity to show me clearly the face of my Lola. Like this blue jar that can protect an enchanted memoir against the weathering brought by time and pressure. Like the shells of sungka which remained lustrous despite of the dust and dirt that had enveloped it. Like the enchantment inside the kulambo which comforted my fragile self. Like the crochet that can be untangled and reconstructed over again. And, like all those things that had comforted my Lola.
I heard my mother called me. I went down and sat on a chair. My mother approached me, at the same time offered me with a biscuit.
