Light
In the three years you have gone, I only visited your house just to help Mama clean. All things are as you left them: the furniture creaky with age, clothes folded neatly in cabinets, your yellowing mix of notebooks, post stamps, and papers stashed in broken briefcases and crispy plastic envelopes. Insane how these are all that’s left of you.
I raided your closet, a year after you passed. You would have given them to me anyway. I took what I liked, the ones that fit. You were much smaller, at 4’11 in height, but you stood taller—literally with your platform sandals, figuratively with a natural bravado not one of us could emulate.
We made fun of you for it as kids, a habit we never grew out of. We called you Combusken, a Pokemon eternally posed with a hand on its waist and an arm stretched to point at its opponent. It was sparked by the night when you stood by the gates: an old widow with her back unusually straight at age 63, a hand on your waist, the other pointing at my 5’11 father, demanding him to get out of your sight. My parents’ marriage was on the rocks at the time, and Papa was trying to take me and my brother away. He didn’t succeed.
When we were teenagers, we joked about your walking pace. Fast and with purpose, steps to a rhythm only you seem to hear. You trudged through crowds in the streets, and we had to try to keep up while carrying the goods you bought. At home, while you listed expenses in your notebook, we complained about our feet hurting and chided: “Happy Feet strikes again,” referencing the movie of dancing penguins. You put the pen down and slap us, murmuring lightheartedly.
Later that night, you’d lie with us in the creaky wooden bed, singing and asking riddles until we fell asleep. The “bugtongs” were to keep our brains sharp, the lullabies to make us early risers, you’d say. The latter wasn’t true—we’d stay up and hum with you while scratching each other’s backs. And when someone goes off-lyric or off-tune, I’d say, “Lola, that’s not how it goes.” You’d tap my cheek and say “It’s okay, we’re all having fun together.”
Nowadays, I can only think of who could have sung with you during the nights of your last years. Tito and his family moved to another country for a better life. Our family moved to reconcile. You were alone in a three-bedroom bungalow, living with diabetes, kidney problems, and the ghosts of everyone who used to laugh and sing with you. Yet, not once did I see your gait nor pace falter. On Sundays when Mama, my brother, and I would visit, you would greet us by the door, sing and ask riddles in bed for siesta, then stand tall by the gates as you saw us off.
At the onset of the pandemic, you stayed at the house Tito bought, where his wife’s twin (and her family) lived. Mama insisted that you stay with us, but Tito argued his spacious house was more comfortable and suited for you, compared to our much compact townhouse. I felt insulted, but it was true so we let things be. Even if that meant we could not visit you as often as we’d all like, as his house was far from ours and we did not have the luxury of a car then.
The last time I saw you was a day before your 77th birthday. We brought your favorite pancit bihon, a cake roll, and puto. We only sang “Happy Birthday,” but we still laughed melodiously. I noticed you were forgetful already; you said so, too, and blamed the numerous medicines you took. You couldn’t stand up or walk without help anymore. Instead, you sat by the dining table, back pressed against the chair, and kissed us on the cheek as goodbye. You died a few weeks later. I did not cry when you passed. Instead, I laid in bed emotionless, straining my ears for some sort of song. When I heard none, I switched to hoping you would visit me in my dream just to experience hurting feet, or be lightly slapped by your notebook again. You never appeared. I started to believe you’ve grown to hate me for never crying. I remember murmuring a dozen apologies until sleep got the best of me. It still didn’t work. And then, one night, I dreamt of you: You stood in your platform sandals, and you hugged me. You told me not to leave you. I woke up in tears, three years of sorrow finally welling up. I like to think of my sobs as the tunes we sang as we reunited, the tears as sweat from carrying your bags of goods, the hunched posture a result of you scratching my back again. But nothing of it was nostalgic. It was all pain, loss, and a steely resolution to carry you with me.
So I don your clothes, and straighten my spine, even when they hang awkwardly due to my height. I wore your best Filipiniana to my graduation, your polo to my first job interview. I walk with speed and purpose, to the rhythm of your hummed songs. I think fast and reply smartly, practiced by your riddles. I laugh and I sing, even when the lyrics are wrong, or the tune tastes different. I list all the expenses everything has cost me. I live with the ghosts of all those who used to do all of those with me.
Emza Diaz, 24, is learning that spirits float, not because the living carry their weight for them, but because they are light to carry.
