I’d just been to school to take my SocSci 2 exam. Incredibly enough, I thought I had fared well in that one. Or so I hoped.

Now I was home – no, I mean, at my boarding house – home, that’s where I would be going. Two thousand Six hundred miles away. I packed some clothes, a Rexona and an Axe, and my Econ 11 readings. I was ready to go.

It was Friday, 9:45 a.m., and I would be absent (read: excused) from my two remaining classes that day. Whipped by the urban elements – noise, speed, smoke – I waited for a bus to ride on near the Petron station at Philcoa. When I found one, I jaywalked and clung to it as it sped by (like what everybody else does). I’m no fan of breaking traffic laws and risking my life on a busy road, but it’s no trend among bus drivers to obey traffic laws and spare people risking their lives on the street either. Thus I became one of those I hate the most. But then, I was chasing time here. I needed to be at the Centennial Airport on or before noon.

Once inside the bus (which was quite empty), I looked for the most comfortable-looking seat I could find. Soon I found it, just near the rear, at the right side, just behind the seat whose back advertised sexmates.

Moments later, the vehicle-congested East Avenue outside became boring and boring by the minute. As if by instinct, I pulled out the July issue of Reader’s Digest from my bag.

“When your Mama and Papa were away for work, you were still very young then, you used to be with me and your Lolo at home,” said Lola Whel, her kind eyes glinting. I told her I couldn’t remember it. So she told me more.

“We had lots of books then. And whenever you were with us, you always looked for those books; well, the colored ones. Once you found them, you’d bring them to the sala to devour them. How you liked them! Once, you were stuck under a small table. You pooped! Guess what you did next.”

Hearty laughter.

I was getting dizzy. The bus stopped-and-went, shaking, with the midday heat slowly penetrating it. Putting the magazine back into my bag, I decided to take a nap. After all, I only had about five hours of sleep the night before, thanks to my SocSci 2 exam.

Lola Whel, the right side half of her body paralyzed, inserted the ends of the mosquito net under the mattress using her left hand. Despite her condition, she did it with ease; I helped her, imitating her careful putting-under of the mosquito net. It was another lazy, soporific afternoon, and we’re about to have our daily siesta, the distinct smell of wood all around the room.

My younger sister could’ve been with us, too. Before we napped, however, Lola showed us one of her many talents: twisting her tongue upside down. My sister and I were amazed. We tried it, but in vain. The best that I could do was twist my tongue halfway upside-down; my sister was disappointed she couldn’t even twist her tongue like mine. Lola Whel laughed before tucking us to sleep.

The bus jolted me awake somewhere in Makati. Glancing outside, I found malls and other commercial establishments, crowded and colorful.

When she still lived near a rural health center, Lola sold bond paper and brown envelopes to the center’s patients. She kept her wares atop her sewing machine, which she still used, never mind her disability. She really loved selling, she once told me. Undoubtedly, the building of a small sari-sari store for her at my aunt’s place truly brought her great joy. It was small enough for her to reach any of her goods with ease.

I arrived at the airport at half past 11. Thank God. I thought it was already noon; I couldn’t afford to be late for my flight. After all the check-in process and inspections, I was finally inside the departure area, waiting for boarding time. Hungry, I trudged toward the Mister Donut booth.

Lola was also a food-lover. She loved cooking and was so good at it. She even had a thick spiral notebook of recipes, which I deem were filled with her culinary secrets. Whenever we had small feasts for birthdays or visiting relatives or anniversaries, she was always the chef, supervising either one of my aunts or the helper (as she was already paralyzed).

Once, she taught me, my sister, and a cousin how to cook scrambled eggs ala Lola Whel. It was like cooking scrambled eggs the usual way – but with spring onion, tomatoes, onion, and cheese in it. Yum!

An hour later, I was already sitting in the plane. Watching Metro Manila become smaller far below me, with cotton-white clouds whizzing by, I succumb to anxiety at the thought of what awaits me in Medina, my hometown in northern Mindanao.

---

Dusk. Several vehicles lined outside my aunt and uncle’s house. Lola Whel’s sari-sari store was shuttered, dust-caked planks and cobwebs seen even from afar. People at the front yard were talking in hushed voices. Gloom was a dense dark cloud that shrouded the whole place...

My two siblings and some of my cousins noticed me coming. They stirred, half-happy of my return, half-sad of its reason. After saying hello to them with a forced little smile, I went straight to the brightly-lit house, my legs becoming heavier with each step. After what seemed like an eternity, I finally reached the flower-filled living room that smelled strongly of candles and tears.

May 31, 2005. “Sorry, Dong, I can’t give you anything today,” she said bashfully apologetically. I wondered for a fleeting second what she was talking about. Then I remembered that she’d been giving me a hundred pesos whenever I say goodbye to her as I return to Manila after a short vacation at home.

“No, it’s okay, Lola.” Had I been that demanding, though unconsciously?

We had a short chat. She told me about telling my aunt and uncle in Manila why I wasn’t able to bid them goodbye when I left for the summer vacation last April. She told me her stomach hurt. She told me to take care of myself. She smiled weakly.

Then we bid each other goodbye –

There, in a white coffin in the living room, lay the non-living body of my dear grandmother, Lola Whel.

– The last one.


She’s now gone, I know; the memories I had with her, however, will forever live.