”Jamias men are mysterious. Their pursed lips keep more secrets than a diary with a padlock.
Jamias men aren't talkers.
Lolo Tal isn't a talker. Lolo Kas isn't a talker. My dad isn't a talker. My uncles aren't talkers.
Perhaps the reason why they aren't talkers is because they let their wives do the talking. (Which I think isn't a bad thing.)
And maybe our little brother won't be much of a talker when he grows older?
I hope so.“ - December 28, 2014
I lived out most of my life with the constant presence of my grandparents. Both pairs have left such a profound impression on me and much of who I am is partly due to the life lessons they've imparted to me. A lot of people say my siblings and I were a pretty lucky bunch since we still had the presence of our grandparents in our lives. Most kids I knew only knew their grandparents through childhood stories and memories of their parents. I get to spend whole Sundays with them up until today. Because of that, it's something I want to do with my own children, when the time comes, of course.
I even assumed that they would live long enough to see my sisters and I get married. Well, mostly me, and I held onto that hope ever since I first fell in love at the young age of 17. I turn 28 in a few days and prayed for my paternal grandparents' recovery the hardest since this year started. Never mind praying for myself. They had to get better.
Unfortunately, I lost one of them.
This was such a hard thing to process since it was the first time in my 28 years that I lost someone who was truly and dearly valuable to me. Children who lost their grandparents when they were young learned to accept the loss as they got older, but how will I handle this?
Acceptance, as I fondly recall memories of my grandfather, was something he was quite good at. He would get a wrong order at the restaurant whenever we had lunch out and he wouldn't mind much if it weren't for the displeased expression on my grandmother's face.
My grandfather— my dad's dad— didn't really talk much. It was my grandmother who did most of the talking whenever we kids were around and he would interject only if she got a detail of a story wrong. He would do so jokingly, too, since he loved teasing our grandmother so much. I can proudly say that I came from a good family because that's who they were and that's what they made. Our dad particularly said that our grandfather was a man of great integrity and simplicity. Low-key, like they always described him, but well-loved by those who worked for him. He adored his granddaughters and one older grandson and had a soft spot especially for his younger, completely unexpected grandsons born in the later years.
Our Sunday lunches at Quezon City were spent setting tables and preparing meals, some of which we brought with us. Our dad would buy readily-cooked meals for the whole family, but if we saw something we liked in our grandfather's kitchen, to hell with what we brought, we're having what he cooked instead.
Every Sunday was a race of who would get the rice from the rice cooker. It was his slippers I borrowed whenever I washed the dishes after eating. Somehow I think we remained children in his eyes even as we got bigger, older and wiser since he still thinks I can't wash the kaldero because it's too big. He never got angry when I used up all of their dish soap, too— he'd only laugh, knowing that their plates and cutlery were squeaky clean.
I spent Sundays scouring my grandfather's bookshelves for crime stories, always telling him I'd give back his books even though I've made a collection at home out of every single one I've borrowed. He didn't mind that since a different title would be there from the last spot I grabbed a book from the week after. He was a voracious reader and my dad and I agreed that our love of books came from my grandfather. He encouraged my love for it, too, even suggesting titles that were... more appropriate for my age, even though he knew I particularly loved the Italian mafia novels.
If there's anything my grandfather taught me, it's that keeping a small circle isn't bad, and your partner should be your best friend for life. He didn't say much about the kind of men we should date, leaving our grandmother to comment instead, but he spent a great deal of our home life showing us instead, especially since he had five (well, six) granddaughters.
Responsible should be a given. If he isn't responsible now, what guarantee do you have that he'll be responsible in the future? Not only that, but he also taught me that a relationship should have enough humour and patience and a really deep understanding of each other. He never really said any of this stuff verbally, but it was really more of how he and my grandmother were around each other. They were lovers and best friends and each other's keepers and they looked out for each other in their own way and this is the kind of love I want to attain for myself. The closeness my grandfather and my grandmother shared was something we could never tap into and could only aspire to have for ourselves, especially since they shared and kept their secrets and conversations in Ilokano. I don't even want what my parents have, but my grandparents? Theirs was nearly sixty years of the truest love I've ever seen and it beats all those Hollywood movies because it was real and this is the kind of love I want for myself and I'm willing to work on— and like what every other young Filipino woman says, kung hindi rin lang ganito, salamat nalang. (Insert laughing emoji here.)
Our last conversation was through the phone, and he had asked me to ask my dad to get him some Ensure. We were certain that he would recover since he had been asking for different things from my dad, such as that old people milk and orange juice. I told him to rest up and get better, which was what would have happened his heart hadn't given way. He would have been home in time for my birthday.
I'm still reeling from the fact that I never got to say goodbye to him properly. This wasn't the death I envisioned for him, but who am I to say that, right? In our nightly family prayers, apart from their recovery, we asked God for the grace to accept whatever it is that would come to pass, even if we had to say our goodbyes on our own.
Our dad said that if it was was any consolation, we were absolutely blessed to have spent most of our lives with our grandfather. He saw us grow up and we saw him grow old, but it's never nearly enough. I wanted to borrow more books from him. I wanted him to see me get married, too. I wanted him to see his great-grandchildren, too. I wanted him to taste my cooking, too, no matter how terrible it was. There was still so much I wanted to ask him, too. I don't think 28 years of my life will ever be enough and that's the longest I've ever lived. You can love a person all your life and it's never nearly enough.
I'll miss my grandfather terribly. He and Rex would've hit off since they had this common love for American crime and political stories. It'll be up to us to introduce him to our babiest cousin Mike, who still has yet to be born. I guess I'll have to learn how to cook pork and beans from my dad instead. I want my own children to learn how to cherish their grandparents and our family so much, too. I hope he knows how high of a standard he set and I feel terrible for giving myself away to irresponsible men before.
I want to honour my grandfather's memory in my own way and I'm pretty sure I'm halfway there since I keep my circle small and my partner close. As for the virtuous, low-key life... I know I'll get there. For now, I can only hope that he comes to see me or send me a sign or a message or something— anything— on my birthday. I'll be up all night waiting, too.
Good night for now, Lolo Tal, our favourite topless king. We'll meet again in the New York from the books I never returned, racing to see who gets the rice first, like always.
Love forever, your second eldest granddaughter and voracious book reader, Tony
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