HE LOVED US FORWARD.
Lamentations of a second-year anniversary.
Queue: Moon River by Andy Williams (2:43) / Put Your Head On My Shoulder by Paul Anka (2:34) / Smile by Nat King Cole (2:53)
Introduction
By the time this is published, it will have been two years since my grandfather passed. I have heartily attempted to write a piece dedicated to him in fragments since I first began publishing here. With full transparency, it has been far too difficult to complete a singular composition about my Lolo. I realized that it’s because finishing a piece would make it seem like the process of grieving has come to completion. But I know that isn’t true, so here it is.
Grief is a testament of love prolonging even after one is no longer physically present.
I first would like to introduce you to my Lolo, my mother’s father. His name was Inocencio. Father of three, grandfather of four, and now a great-grandfather of one. He was the epitome of a family man in the truest sense. I only know a fraction of the sacrifices told over coffee or in deep conversation. Yet with these fragments, I’ve gathered this: every life-changing decision he made was anchored in us. Including his grandchildren who were yet to be born. He continued to do so until his last breath. He loved us and everyone who would follow in our lineage.
I’ve written a few of the light-hearted memories and aslag* that I experienced with my Lolo in pieces back. I talked about his attention to detail and eye for engineering. The way that he could visualize anything and understand its structural integrity. He is a driving force for the passions that I have today. Outside of sketching, we shared a multitude of common interests. Partaking in these activities and passions is a way that allows me to feel his presence even if he is no longer with us.
My Lolo loved music. Anytime I crept downstairs to see what he was up to, there would be music playing from the radio or TV. Often, it would be the Music Channel - Spanish music and oldies especially. Timeless music he’d sing along to. Sometimes we would glance at the TV at the exact same time, both trying to catch the name of a song before it disappeared. That silent coordination felt like our own language. Or rather, a sacred synchronicity. Much of my music taste was because of him. Nat King Cole, Andy Williams, Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin. His favorites, which I learned how to play on guitar, became mine - an unseen but undeniably real inheritance.
His favorite songs translated into karaoke nights, whether that be with the entire family or on his own. It was kind of a funny thing; my family would hear him (beautifully) belting a song downstairs as an evening pastime.
“Lolo’s singing again.”
I’d hear him while working on homework in my room; my grandparents’ room was right below mine. I used to think I had unlimited time to enjoy his kundiman-sounding vocals. Looking back, I wish I went downstairs more often to listen. Or maybe sit outside with my ear to the door. I would do anything just to hear him sing one more song. And I’d like to think that he sang to me one last time two years ago.
I decided to go to work the day after the night of his passing, which I thought would help me keep my mind off of reality. On the way there, I was driving my mom’s car, which would immediately pair with my phone to play music. I wasn’t feeling up to hearing anything that could evoke a surge of emotions so I chose silence. For the first half of the drive, I felt numb. I tried my best to not think about him because I wouldn’t be able to maintain composure.
Suddenly, the media display went haywire. CONNECTED. DISCONNECTED. Over and over. I reached to turn the radio off completely. And to my disbelief, Paul Anka’s Put Your Head On My Shoulder started to play. I immediately felt gutted. I hadn’t played that song in forever, so the odds of it playing randomly seemed like zero. The song played through. I sat there uncontrollably crying. I could see him so clearly, sitting in his room, microphone in hand, perfectly matching Anka’s tone. He sang that song like it was written for him.
Now anytime that song plays randomly, I like to believe that it’s him singing karaoke somewhere I can’t see.
There are many things I want to tell my Lolo. He expressed how proud he was of my sister and I, even for achievements we weren’t particularly vocal about. Being that I am in the pursuit of a career that he planted a seed in my mind about, everything I learn makes me think of my Lolo. It tugs at the heartstrings when the material I’m learning about consists of things I watched my Lolo do over his shoulder. I want to be able to call him and tell him everything. It especially stings when I feel proud of myself. Because I know he would’ve told me he was proud of me, as he did countless times in my becoming.
Grief widened when I began to see it reflected in the people I love.
Watching my grandmother, his beloved, and my mother, his youngest, navigate their loss was almost unbearable. The night he passed, I saw my mom as the little girl reaching for her dad’s hand. They had spent years making up for time they were separated while he worked abroad and she was growing up in the Philippines. It felt like a gift that I got to grow up with him at the same time she did, that we both experienced his presence in our own seasons.
It’s hard for me think to about my Lola, having to live without the person she spent her life loving. Their love story is one of my favorite things to hear about. She was initially not interested, but she came around and fell in love as he courted her. In short. But in their years of love, they built a family. A testimony of a devotion so tender and beyond comprehension.
Growing up, I loved seeing my Lolo tease my Lola with random romantic gestures. A kiss on the cheek. Calling her beautiful. And she’d always pretend to not be flattered. She’d fake her annoyance but we all knew that it meant everything to her by the smile forming seconds after. In the same way that my Lolo made my Lola feel so beautiful, I’ve noticed that my remarks over the phone come from his blueprint. My Lola will say “kalagu-mu,” which translates to calling someone beautiful in Kapampangan. My response, almost reflexively, is to tell her I got all my looks from her. She laughs, in the same way that she would laugh at my Lolo. And it reminds me of all the years I got to see their everlasting love in the mundane, whether it was coming with them to the grocery store or celebrating one or the other’s birthdays. I see how much of him lives in the way we love.
We’re never prepared to live our lives without the people who we love. The amount of time that we get to spend with them is sacred. We can wish for more time. I do. My mom does. My Lola does. But what remains is what he already gave.
A part of life is knowing that every minute counts. My Lolo made every minute count. And that’s the legacy that he left. He lived the last years of his life back in the Philippines building and renovating the foundation of our heritage. He worked with intention, thinking of children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren who would walk through those doors long after he was gone. He loved in preparation for futures he would not witness.
My Lolo loved in advance.
There aren’t enough words to describe what he means to me.
Today, I will be listening to his go-to karaoke songs. I will call my Lola and tell her she’s beautiful. I will be sad. I will be happy. I will celebrate him. I will miss him dearly. He’s not here, but I am.
I am the granddaughter of Inocencio, and I’ll continue to live my life loving him. His passions, his music, his vision. Without my Lolo, there is no me. And for that:
I am eternally grateful to tell his stories and keep his memory alive.
All the love,
Mils
—
*Kapampangan word for ray of light, brightness
In reading this, you are hearing of something that I felt reluctant to be vulnerable about. So, thank you for investing time to give me a space comfortable enough to talk about grief.
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