The gift of grief
Stars are whimsical matters. On one hand, these bodies exist at times ahead of ours, seemingly shining when they could have all the while ceased existence. On the other hand, it is said that no other star could occupy exactly the same space as the one that has died.
Whether it was a bucket of chicken or a box of crispy pata, I no longer remember. It was probably neither of the two when Mommy would explain the lack of a celebration as I grew older and wiser years after. What I do recall from my first birthday dinner was how it was not “vanity fair” that 18th night of April. How could it be when we were mourning the timely loss of my father’s mother back then? Regardless, my family would soon make up for it in the following years, not letting any achievement or anniversary fly by without celebrating with food.
That is the thing with Filipinos, isn’t it? Such tender people have a passionate love for food and an even greater sentiment for what was, all the more for what could have been. We feel immense pride for personal aspirations or that of our blood relations—the epitome of Filipino pride. Unfortunately, I could not say the same nor did I share the same feelings as my family after losing Lola Tale when I turned one year old. Between me and my slightly older sister, Ate was favored because she had more time to bond with our grandmother.
Growing up, I believed we were groomed to be good. While my sister wizardly traversed the perplexing world of mathematics, I flourished in words more than numbers, though I was some sort of a jack-of-all-trades child. Nonetheless, she was the lucky one. I could only hope to bask in the slightest of her glory by asking her for a one-peso coin every so often I would join a competition (ironically or God-willingly, it has worked each time). If I were to identify with one of the characters in “Four Sisters and a Wedding,” I would choose Bobby in an instant.
“Bakit kasalanan ko? Parang kasalanan ko”—these words were popularized from that family movie. While comedic, this line also struck a chord in my overachieving-middle-child heart. This is not a mind, however, for me with my tendency to feel like the main character, treating every single inconvenience as a trajectorial plot device. Almost a decade and eight years after the incident of my birth, I encountered yet another event that hit differently for me this time around, altering the precipice of my long-standing principles.
Weeks before my 18th birthday, my grandfather, the husband of my late Lola, passed away. He did as if in coincidence with Good Friday, with the revered death and sacrifice of Jesus Christ. While strange and unfamiliar are ones that touch the surface of my feelings, I do not think I could ever find the right words to describe losing a loved one. I know it is supposed to be my thing as a writer, but I could not describe such transcendental experiences. My mother observed how 2023 seemed to have an unfortunate greeting for us. For me, however, this event only took me back to the parallel loss of life in the celebration of my first birthday.
Life has cunning ways of reaching for our weakest spots—our Achilles’ heel. Right when everything seems to be going well, it could all take a turn for the worst. The misfortune brought me spiraling back to the trauma of my inner child. Unlike many kids of my age who were afraid of snakes or spiders, I grew up with a fear of death, weary of every careful step I took. This time, I seem to have a response different from my first one. One that could only be the product of maturity from years of dealing with death.
From all my experiences with it, I realized that it was not death that I feared most, rather it was the thought of having not lived. Coming to think of it, embracing the reality of someday having to die frees us of all worldly worries. Holding on to the hope of being remembered for one’s goodness allows us to let go of gold medals and pieces of paper. It strips us bare of all the unnecessary baggage that we carry and lets us truly breathe each breath as if it were our last. Because truly, one day, we will most certainly be correct. And when that day comes, I hope to be with as few what-ifs as possible.
Death is a celebration of life as much as birthdays are. Grieving the loss of a loved one is but a mere expression of all the love that one has left to give. I have learned all too well the value of words for we never really know when the time is up for any of us. Much like dead stars, once the people we hold dear disappear, they stay in a place in our hearts that no one could replace.
Indeed, what is grief, if not love persevering?
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Vinh Marco Tumang, 17, is a graduating high school student from Pulilan, Bulacan. He is also the editor in chief of their campus publication.
