this story originally appeared in the philippine daily inquirer on May 21, 2011.
They keep asking me what triggered it because I was with him when it finally caught up with him.
And most of the time, I just shrug the question off, and tell them that, perhaps, it was inevitable, mortality is something we need to confront as we age. But deep in my heart, I know, because I was the first to witness his surrender.
It was early evening, the distinct aroma of escabeche wafting through the room as I, alone inside my own, impenetrable bubble, was hammering away at an assignment from my online employer.
All of a sudden, the sound of breaking glass shattered my concentration. I rushed to where it came from, and there I saw him. The glass apparently had slipped from his grip. He was lying motionless, his eyes empty—and his face that of a defeated man.
From then on, his physical condition went on a downward spiral—it started with his loss of locomotor skills, then his speech abandoned him until, finally, he regressed back into infancy.
My grandfather, at age 84, became a heart-rending specimen of senility.
Sometimes when I looked at him, I just knew that he had drifted to some faraway world. Yes, he would give me longish gazes at times, but I could no longer see the real person inside the stoic exterior.
Prior to writing this, I had a clear idea of what I wanted to write about: I had wished to describe him down to his minutest endearing qualities: how he looked, how he was passionate about World War II and Manny Pacquiao, how very delicately he would prepare papaya slices for dinner, how he beamed with pride when telling friends that one of his grandchildren was the batch valedictorian, so on and so forth.
But each time I tried to search for the adjectives to paint a clear, exact picture of him, I found myself at a loss because, apparently, love is a beautiful abstraction, and words are never enough to describe the dictates of the heart.
But one day, as I was rummaging through his things, I just found myself in tears after realizing how his prized possessions had been reduced to a few belongings he had kept hidden from all of us.
One who was easily drawn to sentimentality, he kept a lot of mementoes in his room. That day, I saw his favorite hammer on top of his drawer, a blue ball cap that was hanging on his graying wall, a Vietnamese hat that my mom got him from Bohol, a solar-powered flashlight that rested on a monobloc chair, a walking cane beside his bed, even empty bottles of menthol rubs spread here and there, in disarray.
And there was the wooden box that he always kept locked, but not this time. I carefully pulled the lid open and peeked inside.
What instantly caught my eye was a packet of papers wrapped in plastic. When I unpacked it, there stared at my face two most beautiful things: a yellowing love letter from my grandmother before she passed away; and the kindergarten test paper, dated 1990, of a cousin that had a perfect score.
Lolo, even when most people think otherwise, I believe you can still come back. I love you, and we miss you so much.
