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I allowed myself to cry this time.

When Lola Maria died, I was at the awkward phase of adolescence and was a bit gung-ho about proving how grown up I was already. During the wake, I foolishly convinced myself that shedding tears is only for the weak and the selfish.

Selfish because I surmised then that people cry because they only feel sorry for themselves for having lost Lola. Lola is in a happier place now, away from the inconveniences her illness has given her. So why should I cry? I will only be crying for myself.

Of course, my resolution lasted only up to the funeral. My tears were triggered as the coffin was slowly going down and I could hear my cousins calling, “Lola…Wala na si Lola…”

After a dinner meeting with Business Development and a reporter, I received Daddy’s text message.

“Wala na ang Lolo Amado nyo.” It was 10:21 in the evening, February 6, 2007, Wednesday.

My mouth trembled. I bit my lip. So much will change.

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I can not claim I am my Lolo Amado’s favorite apo. After Lola Maria died, we would only go to Bulacan for special occasions like the annual Christmas reunion or the town fiesta.

Perhaps Princess can. My heart breaks for my cousin who was not able to come home and bid farewell to the man who took care of her and her brothers when they were kids. 

A character that intrigues me right now said that “pain, joy, happiness…these feelings help you understand others.” Perhaps in observing how I muddled through with death, I may not only understand myself but also my grandfather.

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Thwack! Thwack! I watched the florist at booth 47 at Dangwa as he pierced the foam stand for the burial wreath he was making. I picked out the flowers myself, checking for damages in the flat spathes, making sure that they would keep fresh in the sweltering heat of Bulacan and last till the burial scheduled on Sunday.

It was drizzling when the florist finished. White anthuriums bigger than my hands spread out like a big fan while a cluster of azucenas of the same color shoot upwards. "As if thanking the heavens for sharing its tears," I thought. The azucenas will give off fragrance as they bloom.

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We were told that all family members are to wear black tops for the funeral. I opened my closet to figure out what to wear for the next few days, Mom’s reminder echoing in my head. Mom told us we have to avoid wearing peach or any “happy” colors as the elders in Bulacan are very sensitive.

Lo and behold! My bright, pastel (and yeah mostly peach) wardrobe stared back at me. I realized if our Company does not provide office uniform, I would never wear a black suit. I asked Paupau if I could borrow any of her black “rocker” shirts. I got a snort as my sister helped me pick out something for the solemn occasion.

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I sent text messages to my friends, announcing our family’s loss. Some of my friends anyway, because after awhile, I stopped. I don’t know why but suddenly I didn’t see the point and felt tired.

Let it not be said that I am ungrateful for those who were thoughtful and sent their condolences. I feel blessed to have them in my life.

However, even at times like these, there are others who insist on being “funny.” Only I could not laugh at their “funny” questions.

My mom and I were on our way to Bulacan when one of those that I informed, sent me a text message, asking my whereabouts.  I told him and then asked why. He then told me I’m invited to a gig. Politely I declined and said I don’t really feel like celebrating. I was too preoccupied with thoughts about my destination to check my phone again until much later in the evening. Two messages: one was about his “incentive” of how good the food was and his “funny” question – if I’m going to Bulacan for my grandfather.

Ay hindi. May perya kasi don, sasakay ako ng tsubibo.

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I’ll maybe write some more. Bit nauseous.

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