In which we are pearls. In which we bear a cross. Inri. In remembrance. In spilling. In heaving. Each of us nailed at the spine. In which we all wear white. In which we all might share the same last name or wherein last name is middle name, regardless. Only we wear white. Only we as in this branch, gnarled purple wood and yellow. In which my brother is broken into powder blue pieces. In which I have to tell my baby cousin to say his good-byes. Where when I hold him, I am holding myself. In which I promise to always tell them stories of him. In which, now, my lolo lives in kingly wings. White wings. The sun cries its light down to us. It tells me we are pearls. It tells me this cross is worth its weight. It tells me in remembrance. It tells me he is everywhere alive.
A poem is a gift. It is also an unfurling. Within a poem is a story. Good poetry carries a universal truth giving life to a feeling we’ve all felt. Outside of love and longing, what’s more universal than grief (where within grief is still an entanglement of love and longing)?
Lolo Meong, my paternal grandfather, passed away February 4, 2021.
Despite this pain, we were the lucky ones. This was during a height in COVID-19 precautions. Prior to his passing, the majority of our “visits” to Lolo (who was checked into a convalescent home due to low to failing kidney health) were over FaceTime. Our luck played a huge part, as this communication was due to the kindness of his nurses, who would call Nay from their personal phones. The two times we did visit in-person, there was the separation of a glass wall. Wherein, again, through the kindness of his nurses, he was wheeled out to us, and we talked through the glass.
With us, our luck came in threes. In his last hours, we technically weren’t allowed to see him in-person. But, his nurses permitted us to visit him in pairs. I went to see him with my father’s brother, Uncle Dodo. He and I cried as we held Lolo’s hands. Uncle Dodo told him everything would be okay, that he would be okay. I told Lolo that he was the best lolo and that I loved him. I promised I would remember his stories and share it with my younger cousins, my children, and everyone who followed. Lolo looked at the both of us and nodded.
That was at 1am. Even after each of us had our turn visiting Lolo, we stayed in the parking lot another hour, unsure of what to do. At 2am, we decided to go home. Nay promised she would wake us when he passed on.
Then, at 4am on February the 4th, my lolo passed away.
In which we are pearls. In which we bear a cross. Inri. In remembrance. In spilling. In heaving. Each of us nailed at the spine.
My parents’ generation endured plenty of loss with the passing of titos, titas, and mga pinsan who lived in the Philippines. However, at this point, my parents (and their siblings) had been in the States for well over twenty years. They loved these family members, but there was a numbing that came with distance. Lolo Meong was the first death among the Arañas-Labras in the diaspora, in this branch that makes us.
I visit Uncle Roger, my lolo’s youngest brother, as an errand for Lola. This was shortly after Lolo Meong passed on, so I was hesitant to see a direct connection to Lolo Meong outside of my immediate branch of the family. I see Uncle Roger’s mannerisms and can pinpoint their similarities. They stand the same. They sit the same. When I hear him on the phone with Lola, fast and aggressive Cebuano, he sounds like Lolo. But, he is not my lolo. Uncle Roger dons a Warriors hat, brimming with hope for another chance in the Championships. I tug at my own Lakers sweater. He is not the same. He is not my lolo.
My lolo loved his children in curious ways. He was also a hoarder. Having lived through poverty, war, and an occupation, he held strong attachment to the material. My father would grow, either physically out of his old clothes or into a new fashion sense, and Lolo would keep these articles of clothing. Lolo would adopt allegiances, following his children.
And so, mimicking the starry-eyed middle schooler, who was my father, Lolo, too, watched Magic Johnson live up to his name on the court. And through the years, Lolo kept the Lakers merch my father amassed.
After his passing, my sister and I pored over countless trinkets, boxes, and drawers. And there, she found the priceless sixteen time champion Lakers jacket. This wasn’t questioned or even a matter of fate. Of course this jacket would return to us. Because we are a branch of purple and yellow.
In which we all might share the same last name or wherein last name is middle name, regardless. Only we wear white. Only we as in this branch, gnarled purple wood and yellow.
Lolo served in the Philippine Navy for twenty plus years. His regaled us with tales of his captaincy. It was because of this, we chose the color blue for his casket. Lola still wears a necklace of a blue anchor. My sister picked bouquets of blue and white. Before they lowered Lolo, my brother watched the tree cry its white flowers along the wind. I can’t visualize him crying, but I know he did. He bared the brunt of Lolo’s hopes and aspirations because he was the only male, Labra apo who would bear his last name.
In which my brother is broken into powder blue pieces.
The younger generations meet softened versions of our elders. The lolo I knew at seven was not the same my baby cousin met when he was seven. Similarly, the lolo I knew was not the cold, distant father that my father knew. This is something to be celebrated. It is a blessing to witness a softening.
At Lolo’s viewing, my younger cousin, PinPin, read aloud his speech. At the podium, with the help of my sister, he told us what he loved and remembered about his Lolo Meong. He cried, and his crying caused his little sister, Baby, to cry. And I stifled my tears to hold the other side of him. He was too young. I felt too young. This was too soon. I swore again that I would tell him stories, and I would ask him to share more of his.
In which I have to tell my baby cousin to say his good-byes. Where when I hold him, I am holding myself. In which I promise to always tell them stories of him.
In 2021, I was bitter at the overlap. In 2022, I am grateful for the overlap.
I read and hear of rituals that bring comfort to me despite my religious (or lack thereof) beliefs. My lolo is promised to us for forty more days. He ventures the world as a butterfly, specifically the white butterfly that frequents Lola’s garden. As a butterfly, he can spend as much time as he wants in the sun. I can imagine his face angled, as if purring, toward its warmth. The world does not mourn with us, but I want to believe it does.
We are still the same string as before. My partner reminds me I will always have two. I will always have two. He helps me to carry what I no longer see as a burden. Grief is a reminder that the universe is without feeling or intention. It is with this sentiment that makes the overlap such a blessing.
In which, now, my lolo lives in kingly wings. White wings. The sun cries its light down to us. It tells me we are pearls. It tells me this cross is worth its weight. It tells me in remembrance. It tells me he is everywhere alive.
He will stay in the before; he was with me for a moment in the present; and now, he continues into the future with us.
In us.
In me.
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