post-mortem
Two Sundays ago, my family and I were driving home from mall-church (in which I evaded Holy Mass by saying I have a wax appointment) and were discussing the 171-peso folding walker from Shopee that they were eyeing for our Lolo, having lost his balance a few days prior. We were joking around, saying a walker that cheap would cause more harm than good, and it was likely a scam listing anyway.
It was a pointless conversation since our Lolo didn't wake from his sleep the next morning. He was 90 years old.
My Lolo was quiet as a mouse. He always kept to himself – reading thick suspense-thriller paperbacks in the background or silently watching TV in the corner. Never in my life have I seen him raise his hackles – I don't think he's actually capable of it. He was the eye of the storm, a calm and gentle presence in a household of hotheads and loudmouths. He was sweet and kind but also a certified hater. I remember watching the news with him and he was grumbling about the news anchor's oddly spelled name – it was Jazmin. His face was a look of disgust, which has taken me aback. I realized then that this is where my hater gene comes from.
The wake was a convivial affair. I managed to hold back my tears until the funeral, when my Dad's voice turned too low for my liking. We buried him a few meters away from where my other grandparents were buried. I wondered what was going through my Lola's head, seeing the adjacent plot of land reserved for her.
It was a peaceful, sunny day. There were two stray cats meandering about, one obviously sick with mouth ulcers. I looked helplessly knowing I don't have the means to rescue a cat at that moment.
I took a lot of photos, finishing my 36-exposure roll in four days.
A few men in our family, including my little nephews, took turns shoveling dirt into the hole. It was the idea of the white guy who appeared on the day of the funeral, whom apparently is married to my Lolo's other granddaughter who lived in the US. He insisted it would help bring closure but I can't say for sure that it did. His presence alone gave me more questions than answers.
The last time I lost a grandparent before this was 16 years ago. I dreaded the day my last living grandparents would die, mostly because I wasn't ready to see my Dad and his siblings go through it. They were fine though, I think. We're going to be fine.