I woke up this morning with the sun shining as bright as can be and the skies blue and cloudless. The sound of my clock just outside my bedroom continued to tick-tock away, oblivious to the one hour we get back from the start of daylight savings. Full eight hours of sleep AND I get an hour back, PLUS a quiet Sunday with no plans but to nap, snack/eat and go for a walk. I live for Sundays like today. Yet throughout the morning, my body felt glum. Sadness crept in and before I knew it, tears started to roll down my cheeks. I kept asking myself, “Why are you crying? What do you feel sad about?” And it took me most of the morning to realize… It has been exactly a month today since you passed. They said that the body keeps score, I guess they were right.
I’ve felt at peace over the past few weeks knowing that you’re at peace now. It was really hard at first, and I kept remembering your smiling face. Most, if not all of my memories of you are you smiling one way or another. But for some reason, the prevailing memory that I kept remembering was of you and me riding the tricycle to the beach and you specifically telling me not to put my hand on the bike tires. My curious little self was adamant about wanting to know why and what that sensation might feel like. Well, it hurt like how rotating rubber on the skin would and I found out why. You were annoyed, but not upset. You didn’t yell at me or get mad. I don’t remember much about that day after that, aside from going to the beach anyway.
You’re with Nanay now, but don’t tell her that you were my favourite. You made me laugh; danced with me; taught me how to play solitaire (after I insisted on watching you); how to fish (I assume to keep me quiet); negotiated with me when I didn’t want to share my favourite Ligo sardines; took care of me when I was sick and watched me slowly grow. With the same small almond-shaped eyes and tan skin, you helped me feel like I belonged. Thank you for your patience. Thank you for the lightness and calm you brought to my heart. Thank you for encouraging me to do my best and always being proud of whatever outcome. Thank you for giving me the privilege to be your granddaughter.
Some days I miss you more than others. And I wish you could meet the family I hope to have someday, the friends I have and be a part of the life I continue to be in. Then I remember that you are here, perhaps not physically but you are. In the birthday letters I’ve kept, in the impromptu at-home dance parties to Mambo No.5 while cleaning, and the bellowing laughs when something is really funny.
Or when someone tells me, “Pull my finger.”