‘Suman’ and Sundays
Throughout my life, people have often remarked that I resemble certain individuals, ranging from famous actresses to everyday passersby. However, as I went through puberty and my features started to mature, people around me began to see a familiar face as they looked at me. It’s someone very close to my heart—my late grandmother, Lola Carda.
During family gatherings that I scarcely attended, I’m either told how much I’ve grown or how much I resemble my grandmother. My oval-shaped face, high cheekbones, tall nose, and even mannerisms reminded them so much of her. It was as if she were my twin, who was born decades earlier than me. They frequently jest that the similarity came about because Lola was quite mean to my mother during the time I was in her womb.
Looking back, we only spent a few years together—nine years to be exact. Yet those years were filled with nothing but comfort, laughter, and hugs.
Back when I was younger, my family never missed a single Sunday Mass. At that age, it wasn’t the Mass that captured my anticipation. Rather, my excitement revolved around the post-Mass plans dictated by the church we chose to attend. If it’s Mass at Our Lady of Peace and Good Voyage Parish, the rest of the day will be spent in the nearby mall, and perhaps we’ll get groceries right after. If the weather permits, playing and running around the park, too. If it’s at Sto. Niño de Bula Parish, we’d traverse a familiar road leading to my grandmother’s house afterward. We’d be filled with the warm embrace of our family as we spend our Sunday afternoon with them. However, if it’s at St. Michael the Archangel Parish, it meant my parents were swamped with their work obligations, so we had to go home right after the Mass. Even so, we still try to make our Sunday meaningful by grabbing some kakanin and other sweet delights from the vendor outside the parish.
It was one of the typical Sundays that I got used to. I woke up to the voice of Rey Valera, my father’s chosen soundtrack for the morning, resonating from his newly bought speakers. As the familiar sound wafted, my mother gently hummed along to the rhythm while she meticulously ironed our Sunday’s best. And after hours of preparation, we’d find ourselves inside the church, smiling widely to strangers as we uttered the word “peace.”
We attended the Sunday Mass at Sto. Niño de Bula Parish, an indication that we’d spend the rest of the day at my Lola’s humble abode along with my relatives. As her residence came into sight, a flurry of emotions overwhelmed me. I cannot hide my excitement, not just for the time with Lola but perhaps for the possibility of receiving some money from her as a treat. I dashed toward her with a hug while eagerly awaiting her expected compliment on my freshly scented hair. True to form, she did just that and followed it up with a kiss on the cheek. It was the typical “Lola kiss” that felt more like a tender sniff.
Lola and I then snuggled indoors, sharing a secret mission as the adults engaged in a conversation. With a subtle move, she grabbed something from her pocket, which sparked a sense of excitement within me. It was a P20 bill. Her eyes then gleamed mischievously as she entrusted me with a task that seemed as daring as a scene from an action movie: to buy a cola from the nearby sari-sari store without letting my parents know about it.
Upon my return, she rewarded me with a sticky and sweet suman—the only kakanin I like to eat. She then refused to receive the cola that I bought. It dawned on me that the drink, which I thought was for her, was intended solely for me to enjoy along with the suman (that she saved from her breakfast). I was still full, but her genuineness and effort made it impossible for me to decline. The realization welled up emotions in me, causing me to tear up. As she lovingly watched me devour and enjoy the weird yet delicious food combination, she couldn’t have foreseen that a simple suman and cola combo would make her precious grandchild cry out of joy every single time that memory resurfaces.
That day, which I thought to be ordinary, morphed into a cherished fragment of childhood that always reminds me that the greatest memories are made unexpectedly. It’s in the genuine warmth, the spontaneous waves of laughter, and the unpredictable turns of an ordinary day that we find the heart’s deepest imprints.
In 2015, Lola died due to an illness. Since then, a lot has changed. The once-vibrant Sundays I used to look forward to have now lost their spark. I still eat suman, though not as often as before. Mainly because I couldn’t finish a piece of it without shedding tears. The smooth cadence of her voice, which once showered me with sweet words, has now slipped from my memory. And the comforting smell that used to linger on my clothes whenever she embraced me has also dimmed in the corridors of my mind.
It’s a poignant reality.
However, there’s one thing that remains as clear as day to me, and that’s her beauty, because every time I look in the mirror, I see not just myself but also a reflection of her.
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Abegail Tangkawan, 17, is a senior high school student at General Santos Doctors’ Medical School Foundation Inc. She loves to write as much as she loves Yeri.
