...I could write in words Debussy's Claire de Lune, then that is exactly how I can describe this moment.
 

            All my memories of Apong are probably bad. The only good ones I have are those my mom used to tell me, how when I was a baby Apong took care of me while she and my dad were at work. Sometimes, I imagine that I do have faint recollections of calm times like that. When everything was fine and normal just how a great grandmother and her great granddaughter got along. But times like that are easily overcome by the more persisting memories of how I hated her, loathed even. For years I carried the notion of how strong and bad Apong’s character was. Not exactly bad maybe, but the short-tempered, sharp-tongued one. And as the 4^th in line from the “Bautista lineage” me and my family joked about (i.e. Apong- Mommy Auring my grandmother – Inay – ME), I always believed that it was partly her fault of how my grandmother, mom, and now me were haunting replicas of that same bad character. 

            As a kid, I have been bad in 3 particular ways. Ways which I know will haunt me throughout this lifetime, for I know that I have done wrong, wrong which is not only hard to rectify, but humiliating as well. One of those ways was with Apong. If she shouted at me, believe me I shouted at her too; and all those answering-back at an age of 6 to 8. We’d exchange vile remarks at each other, she in Ilocano and me in Filipino. I never cursed, but I told her how I hated her. I guess this is just how it is when any of the 4 of us are together, but the other combinations are a different story altogether.

            Apong lived with us, or rather I lived with her from birth until I was 8 years old. Since both my parents were working, my brother and I were taken care of by her and our yaya. She was unendingly nagging us and shouting at us, and I guess I somehow took from my grandmother how I answered back at her as well. Though I never valued her before, I now understand, upon retrospect, how she cooked for us, fed us, bathed us, and for a time even wiped my behind after I yelled “Finish”. One day, Apong had a bad fall, resulting to broken bone and a lifetime of walking with a walker from that day on. That didn’t stop her from shouting obscene Ilocano terms at me, that including “butet”, the term for “matakaw”. I was, indeed. Even with a limp, she continued to take on the role of my unrecognized second mother and mortal enemy, at the same time. I’ll probably never remember why our personalities clashed that hard before. But it doesn’t matter now, what’s done is done, and words are something you can never take back. 

            When she left to live in Pangasinan for we moved to my paternal lolo’s house in Makati, my life became devoid of the usual loud exchanges. We visited her twice a year, and soon enough all those things have remained forgotten and what was left to the relationship was of a seemingly senile old great grandmother and another one of her great grandchildren – formalities. In time, I somehow learned to love her. Distance can after all nurture love as well. Twelve years have gone by, and every time we visit her, the kiss I plant on her cheek as my mother insists becomes more voluntarily every time.

            Recently, we received news that Apong was admitted to the hospital. She no longer ate, and her incessant vomiting had both dehydrated and malnourished her. My mom and my dad of course went to Pangasinan to see her. The evening of their return was New Year’s Eve. We celebrated still, and in the back of my mind was Apong, feeding through an NGT, unable to eat, speak or breath properly. It was at the back of my mind, but honestly I wasn’t terribly affected. Today, my dad went to Pangasinan again to check on Apong. He reported how thinner Apong has gone compared to 2 days ago. My mom cried several times throughout the day, and I embraced her in comfort, knowing not what to say. She said it herself, I told myself, that if Apong was to go, it was for the best - to prevent prolonging the agony, and besides she was already 94. I never thought tears would voluntarily fall from me. My memories of Apong have become so distant, if not what I initially believed as all bad. 

            My dad just came home tonight, and he narrated the day’s ordeals. So much issues surround Apong’s family. I sat there listening to my dad’s narrations, more interested perhaps on old stories like how my grandmother was asking forgiveness from Apong (their history is even more grim). Then suddenly, my dad announced he had taken a picture of Apong. I took his cellphone and looked at it. Looking at Apong, a face I haven’t seen for longer than a year, I felt something in my innards. Perhaps I had judged her too cruelly. After all, it was probably at life and fate she was angry with, thus her vicious temper. I couldn’t blame her. So many other people are poor, not because they chose to be, or that they didn’t want to do anything about it, but because some things are just how they are. Tonight I found out why my grandmother asked for forgiveness from her. She had blamed Apong for her grade-4 education only, for her being a “mang-mang”. She had blamed her explicitly, as my mother vividly remembered. My mom said Apong cried all those times my grandmother shouted at her, and it was almost everyday. I have never seen or even imagined her cry. I did not know her to be a person with a weakness. I was lucky I was able to suppress the welling inside me. The tears I have are voluntary; I never planned on crying for Apong. But looking back, maybe I did love her…and she too loved me. I looked away, careful enough to prevent my parents from seeing it, but careful enough to treasure the realization as well. 

            My dad said Apong motioned a nod when he asked if she wanted to see me and my brother, among other things. She appeared lucid at that moment. And at that moment too, she forgave my grandmother, and affirmed her love and hate for some people my dad asked about as “mahal mo ba si …?”. My tie with Apong is not as strong as hers and her children, or hers and my moms. After all, I am a great granddaughter already, the great granddaughter who rebelled against her as well, the 4^th generation in her matriarch line. In these final moments, why is it that it is when I realize these things? It is always like this probably, for life will always be busy with other things, and that only the end of something can push its presence forward amidst a multitude of priorities. I wonder if this really is the end. After all, Apong’s Ilocano blood has proved to be as strong as the bamboo, bending in motion to the strong gushes of the wind all these years. But for all this, maybe I can now take back what I initially said. As I type this and try to remember those years we spent in Sampaloc, I can say that not all my memories of Apong are bad after all. 

            I do remember a time when she gave me a P20 bill for church. I remember that moment…a testimony that there existed the good times.

            We will all be going to Pangasinan within next week to see her. With my emotional state right now, I am sure I won’t be able to speak without shaking. Maybe I wouldn’t even speak at all, if that’s what it takes to suppress the emotion. I never really showed my care for her, maybe only those seen as obligation as a grandchild. I would not dare cry in front of those other relatives, afraid probably that they judge my tears as overreacting.

            It is probably not too late for me to understand her story only now. As 4^th in line, the love I owe her could probably only be shown through the justice I should do to my character. She owes me not for my bad traits, but I owe her after all for my strong ones.

But, for the first time in 4 years, I've never been this excited for Christmas...for the right reasons.  I should sustain this my whole life, really.  

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“Ma, sandali lang po.”

            I hastily step down from the jeepney.  I walk to the other side of the road and turn left towards the run-down School of Statistics.  The pavement is wet and the air is sweet. I quicken my steps for a while, but careful not to slip and ruin the moment.  Across the street, I see a man with what looked like a monkey; a black one.  He was carrying it as if it was his child.  Out of closer inspection, I found out that it was a dog.  A light shower was pouring and the man produced a small towel and offhandedly tossed it over his dog’s head.  I grinned out of amusement and proceeded to open my own umbrella which I had been clutching the whole jeepney ride.  The rain was barely noticeable, but I couldn’t get sick.  At least not before Christmas break for the sake of my exams.  I was running late, but I enjoyed the cool morning walk.  Walks through some parts of the campus have become sacred to me, along paths where the people are scarce and the undergrowth is more evident.  I can almost call it peace, if not for the well defined location I'm headed to.  Times like these make me think more often, notice more things, and see through the brashness that citylife has bestowed upon me. 

           It is when I'm alone that I get to see the world better, slower and more forgiving with the hope of tomorrow.

Sometimes tears say all there is to say
Sometime your first scars wont ever fade, away
Tried to break my heart
Well it's broke
Tried to hang me high
Well I'm choked
Wanted rain on me
Well I'm soaked
Soaked to the skin

It's the end where I begin
It's the end where I begin

Sometimes we don't learn from our mistakes
Sometimes we've no choice but to walk away, away
Tried to break my heart
Well it's broke
Tried to hang me high
Well I'm choked
Wanted rain on me
Well I'm soaked
Soaked to the skin

It's the end where I begin
It's the end where I begin

Now I'm alive
and my ghosts are gone
I've shed all the pain
I've been holding on
The cure for a heart
Is to move along, is to move along
So move along
X 3
What don't kill a heart
Only makes it strong

Sometimes tears say all there is to say
Sometime your first scars dont ever fade, away
Tried to break my heart
Well it's broke
Tried to hang me high
Well I'm choked
Wanted rain on me
Well I'm soaked
Soaked to the skin

It's the end
End where I begin
It's the end
End where I begin

Sometimes we don't learn from our mistakes
Sometimes we've no choice but to walk away, away