In every rainfall, I miss you | Inquirer Opinion

In every rainfall, I miss you

It was 2 a.m. The heavy downpour loudly echoed in the night. In front of me was my laptop. Tabs were still open with my research papers, readings, and unfinished assignments. My shoulders have been pressed down with the heavy weight of the workload I had to juggle. As I attempted to focus on my plate, I was only confronted with distractions so I decided to close the browsing windows and shut the laptop down.

I had to rest, I told myself. Maybe a brief three-hour sleep before another day begins will give me the energy I need to go back to the mountain of assignments that looms over me.

As I lay in bed, I remember my Lolo again. It has been 10 years since he passed away, but every so often, I would remember him in moments of vulnerability. He crosses my mind when the pressure becomes suffocating and it already feels like a stolen luxury when you decide to take a few hours rest.

Ten years yet I still long to meet him, to talk to him, and tell him that everything has never been the same since he left. That sometimes I couldn’t do it anymore.


And to hear his response, “Salig lang, Dong.”

But there’s no one to tell me these words since he left almost a decade ago.

I still remember that moment. I was in my elementary graduating year. There was a tropical storm predicted to hit the northern part of the Philippines. Although it was only light rain in Cebu at the time, we heard on the TV that classes were postponed. The skies outside remained dark but I asked Mama if we could go out in our front yard to play in the rain.

“Ma, pwede mi maligo sa uwan?”


There was no contention from her.

It was cold outside yet I enjoyed every raindrop that touched my skin. The sky was still dark while I was playing in the rain, the light in our front door was the only thing that illuminated me. After a few minutes, the rain ceased. Papa came to fetch me with a towel. Once inside, I went right away to the shower.


After taking a bath, I walked into the living room to check Lolo lying on a small bed. Lolo had been bedridden for a long time now. As I was staring at him, I heard his heavy breathing. The sound was unusual. And then it continued for a minute … and then another minute. I knew it was not normal. Something was off.

I called for Mama and Papa. “Ma! Pa! Si Lolo!” I repeatedly called for them until I realized they were beside me.

I did not know what was happening—all I knew was that it was unusual.

And then I heard Mama crying. “Wala na si Papa,” she whispered slowly. Enough for us to hear.

Lolo’s heavy breathing crashed, and the room was filled with the sound of our cries.

It was raining again. The loud rainfall was deafening as it blended with our tears.


Since then, every so often, I’d feel both a heavy heart and comfort when there was rainfall.

It is nostalgically heartbreaking to remember the last breath of Lolo. To witness with my own eyes how he left us. It plays again and again. Yet I also feel comfort that even in his last breath, I was with him. He left, but I was with him.

Lolo was a constant presence for the majority of my early childhood. In our province in Barili, I would always tail wherever he goes. When he’d feed our goats with the grass in our field, Lolo would give me the tie of our smallest goat. I would always go with him to sell homemade tablea to different sari-sari stores—we would walk for kilometers. These things now remain as memories.

He left me early. He did not wait until I graduated from elementary school. He only had to wait for months. It has been long years of struggle to cope with this daunting feeling to push forward. Every so often, I would remember him. Every so often, there is nothing that I can do but succumb to this unavoidable feeling. Even now, as a college student, the memories persist, embedded deep within my heart.

There is a saying that goes, “Time can heal everything.”

Almost 10 years have passed since then, yet the vast space of grief is still there. Every time my friends talk about their grandparents, my heart beats loudly because I remember Lolo. It had been 10 years since Lolo passed away, yet I always look for him in every person I meet, hoping to find a connection that can rekindle the cherished memories of our time together.

It has been 10 years since Lolo passed away … it was loudly raining that night.

In every rainfall, I remember him.

In every rainfall, I miss you, Lolo Garvin.


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Ian Peter Guanzon, 21, is a student journalist taking up communications at the University of the Philippines Cebu.

TAGS: opinion, Young Blood

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