HOW DO you tell your mother that she has lost a brother? I couldn’t. So I texted my father to come home and tell her, and went to sleep.
Last year my favorite aunt died. In the days before her passing, we heard news of her struggle with liver cancer. She succumbed on, of all days, Dec. 30, when we thought we’d welcome the New Year together. On the 29th, we received news that she was feeling better. We dared hope for a recovery, that she’d outlive the initial three months that was given her. We were quite sure. On the following afternoon, never had we been so disappointed.
There’s nothing more painful than being bereft of a certain hope—to be able to come so close, to believe, to—damn it—hope. To hope for a better tomorrow, then be robbed of that hope. To expect everything (God, something will be quite a bonus) then end up having nothing—not time, not closure, not even goodbye.
My youngest aunt texted me the news. She said not to be shocked, but my eldest aunt had passed away. How can you relay such news and tell someone to not be shocked? When has the death of someone special not been an earth-shattering event? I was at a salon having my hair done and I had to try so damned hard to stem the tears. The earth stopped moving and all I heard was a certain ringing. There was a sense of disconnect, my head was floating. I was restless. I was numb. I was nothing. I went home to a silent house, save for my mother’s quiet sobs. My father, our rock, stayed close.
I’ve written letters and composed poems for my aunt. (Until now, I still have her last text message.) I can transcribe into words all that I wanted to say, but these will not reach her. She wouldn’t know that she was my favorite, and that I always, always treasured her. My childhood memories of summer will always be bound to her.
My uncle passed away this morning. My youngest aunt told me to relay the news ever so gently to my mother, so as not to shock her. I reckon the shock factor will not go away considering that we’re here in Mindanao and they’re in Luzon. There’s no way we can be prepared for when death comes as news is filtered by distance and communication. We knew of my uncle’s sickness but not of its gravity and his proximity to death. My father had to come home to break the news. My mother wept. I found I wasn’t brave enough to break her heart.
I’ve found that death redefines our roles. When people go, are we the same as we were when they were still alive? My mother, is she still a sister to my aunt Leonor and to Tata, now that we have lost them? Is my father still Tata’s brother-in-law, now that he has passed?
The season of death, like the fall, now plucks its leaves from the twigs. Never has a falling felt more painful.
Before I fell into the deep sleep, I heard the reassuring murmur that was my father and the muffled weeping that was my mother.
Bernadette A. Bumagat, 23, lives and works in Davao City.