The Dearly Departed (NaBloPoMo Post #2/Day 1)
The first two days of November is a time to visit the cemetery. In our culture it is almost mandatory.
My earliest memories of these annual visits are at best patchy. I was fortunate enough to have had both sets of grandparents while I was growing up so I can only hazard a guess at whose graves we might have been visiting when I was younger.
On my mother's side, it may have been my aunt who was born on Christmas Day. It is unclear if she was stillborn or if she was born alive and died a few hours later. My grandmother told me that she was working in her flower shop that fateful day. She had reached up for a basket and began experiencing labor pains soon after. That was always how she began her story so I had assumed as a child that her reaching up for a basket was what had caused my aunt's death.
On my father's side, I recall visiting three graves. Two were on top of each other (great grandparents?) and another was to the side.
The visits only had a real meaning to me when my grandparents started passing away. The first to go was my paternal grandfather, Lolo Mandong, who had won medals in both world wars. I was always afraid of him as a child and one of my greatest regrets is that I didn't get to know him better. Sadly, when I think of him, the first thing that comes to mind is a picture of him in his US Navy uniform. And I do mean a picture - in sepia and framed.
Next were my maternal grandparents. My grandmother, Lola Tans, was the one I felt closest too. My fondest memories are times in the flowershop when I would help her. She would let me wrap and twist white or green crepe paper around wires before she inserted them into flowers for arrangements and bouquets. I also recall the time between lunch and nap time when I would go to her bedroom and lie down on the bed while she read to me the comics page of the Manila Bulletin. My favorite memories of Lolo Pete took place in either of two places. The kitchen, where he taught me to bake breads and rolls -- braiding the cinnamon was what I loved best. In front of the fireplace, him on his rocking chair and me and my cousins on the rug, while he told us stories about growing up.
My paternal grandmother, whom we fondly called Lola Taba, passed away a few years ago. We were her only direct grandchildren and so we were the only ones allowed to call her that. To everyone else, she was Lola Titang. She was the one I hardly got along with yet strangely enough she is the one I have the most memories of. I remember things she said and did going way back to when my age was still a single digit.
Looking back, I wish I had spent more time with them when they were alive. Getting to know them better. Listening to and remembering their stories. Now, it is too late. Memories of life are much dearer than memories of cemetery visits. I've heard it said a lot of times, that the best time to visit is when people are alive and not when they are dead. It is a cliche but one that is best taken to heart.
Today, I did not visit a single cemetery. I am spending the weekend with my family. Some of my husband's family are with us too. We are celebrating life by enjoying each other's company, sharing stories and eating good food.
No, we did not visit the dead. That doesn't mean we have forgotten or that we will forget. The cemeteries hold only their remains. I'd like to believe that their souls are in a wonderful place where they look down on us and lovingly encourage us to spend as much time with our family as they would have wanted to spend with us had they had the chance.
Eternal rest grant unto them Oh Lord, and may perpetual light shine upon them. Amen.
My earliest memories of these annual visits are at best patchy. I was fortunate enough to have had both sets of grandparents while I was growing up so I can only hazard a guess at whose graves we might have been visiting when I was younger.
On my mother's side, it may have been my aunt who was born on Christmas Day. It is unclear if she was stillborn or if she was born alive and died a few hours later. My grandmother told me that she was working in her flower shop that fateful day. She had reached up for a basket and began experiencing labor pains soon after. That was always how she began her story so I had assumed as a child that her reaching up for a basket was what had caused my aunt's death.
On my father's side, I recall visiting three graves. Two were on top of each other (great grandparents?) and another was to the side.
The visits only had a real meaning to me when my grandparents started passing away. The first to go was my paternal grandfather, Lolo Mandong, who had won medals in both world wars. I was always afraid of him as a child and one of my greatest regrets is that I didn't get to know him better. Sadly, when I think of him, the first thing that comes to mind is a picture of him in his US Navy uniform. And I do mean a picture - in sepia and framed.
Next were my maternal grandparents. My grandmother, Lola Tans, was the one I felt closest too. My fondest memories are times in the flowershop when I would help her. She would let me wrap and twist white or green crepe paper around wires before she inserted them into flowers for arrangements and bouquets. I also recall the time between lunch and nap time when I would go to her bedroom and lie down on the bed while she read to me the comics page of the Manila Bulletin. My favorite memories of Lolo Pete took place in either of two places. The kitchen, where he taught me to bake breads and rolls -- braiding the cinnamon was what I loved best. In front of the fireplace, him on his rocking chair and me and my cousins on the rug, while he told us stories about growing up.
My paternal grandmother, whom we fondly called Lola Taba, passed away a few years ago. We were her only direct grandchildren and so we were the only ones allowed to call her that. To everyone else, she was Lola Titang. She was the one I hardly got along with yet strangely enough she is the one I have the most memories of. I remember things she said and did going way back to when my age was still a single digit.
Looking back, I wish I had spent more time with them when they were alive. Getting to know them better. Listening to and remembering their stories. Now, it is too late. Memories of life are much dearer than memories of cemetery visits. I've heard it said a lot of times, that the best time to visit is when people are alive and not when they are dead. It is a cliche but one that is best taken to heart.
Today, I did not visit a single cemetery. I am spending the weekend with my family. Some of my husband's family are with us too. We are celebrating life by enjoying each other's company, sharing stories and eating good food.
No, we did not visit the dead. That doesn't mean we have forgotten or that we will forget. The cemeteries hold only their remains. I'd like to believe that their souls are in a wonderful place where they look down on us and lovingly encourage us to spend as much time with our family as they would have wanted to spend with us had they had the chance.
Eternal rest grant unto them Oh Lord, and may perpetual light shine upon them. Amen.