arrivederci

But o heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red.
Where on the deck my Captain lies
Fallen cold and dead.
              - O Captain, My Captain (Walt Whitman)

I know that this is in accordance with the natural order of things - that children will bury their parents.  But i never expected it to happen this early and this soon.

As the eldest, I have been raised and trained with the requisite qualities, abilities, qualifications and values to step up and be the second parent when needed.  Mom was always proud of my strength, my intellect, my determination, even if she had had doubts about my being beautiful in the eyes of the opposite sex.  But i have Rauf now.

That aside, most of you know that I have been playing a big role in the family for some time now.  I have accepted it as part and parcel of the realities of being the Ate. The primus inter pares. The first among equals.  But mom was always there as our heart and soul.  Come to think of it, Mom was training us to the very end, making sure that the three days in the ICU would heal our own personal pains and forge deeper, stronger, more meaningful bonds among & between us her children, especially from Bullet down to Seal.

My friends know how much I love and how much I've sacrificed for my family, and it goes without saying that I and Rauf are velcroed to my, this family, forever.  Glued or stuck is harsh.  It means it will not budge or break unless broken.  But velcro? It works together: the soft, fluffy side and the rough, gritty side, meeting together and working together, until they have to be separated a bit to allow something or someone in or out, and then they have to be re-attached again to work as a whole.

Just like velcro, our family has both the soft, fluffy side and the rough, gritty side.  All families do.  And just like velcro, Mom was always balancing both sides and keeping us all together:  with laughter & tears, joy & sorrow, support & restraint, smiles & scoldings, soothing embraces & fighting words, comfort & tough love.

These past few months, the mechanics holding our velcro together were weakening.  The rough, gritty side had started rearing its ugly head, and the soft, fluffy side was slowly unravelling.  As the eldest and as the child of both parents, I chose not to take sides.  I wonder now how things would have turned out had I decided to do otherwise.  Well somehow I did, but any intervention I attempted to make was met with silence.  Whether it was an implied admission or a general denial, I know it may not matter to most of you now.  But it does to me, to us.  Because Mom is gone.

Mommy, in your ICU bed and in front of your coffin, I was always whispering to you to give me a sign.  I waited and waited... and you showed me the way last night.  Finally.  I will not let you down, Mommy.  We will not let you down.  This is not a question of loyalty, or of trust, or of societal norms.  But a commitment of love.

But Mommy, it's time to rest.  You have done more than your fair share of taking care of all of us - over, above & beyond what usual motherhood means.  You were our teacher & our friend.  You were always, always our biggest, proudest #1 fan.  You were the static and the guiding hand that kept us velcroed together.

And while I speak in the past tense, know that every little & big, normal & extraordinary thing you have done for us will always be in our hearts.  Never forgotten.  Always remembered.

Thank you, Mommy.  Sorry we never got to lavish you with everything your heart desired. 

Maybe God just wanted to take away all your pains and frustrations and disappointments.  Maybe at the end, the pride & joy we had given you as your children, and Rauf as your grandchild, were enough to make you happy, if not complete.
Maybe 18 months with your Rafael is enough to last him a lifetime.
Maybe 13 years with Seal was enough, so he can grow up to be his own man because you babied him so.
And maybe, just maybe, God took you away to teach all of us - Dwan, Niccolo, Bullet, Lian, Brikko, Seal and I, with Rauf, to really take care of each other & value each other, even without you here with us every second, of every minute, of every day.

It will be hard to pick up the scattered, broken pieces of what you have left behind.  You're a tough act to follow, Mom, but we will try.  Yes, we can. (Oh, how you loved Obama!) So yes, all 7 of us can. 

We will stand together.  We will be strong together.  Just as we survived and lived while you were alive, we will do our very best to live, laugh, cry, study, work, play, win, lose, feel, love, hope and fight... with your passion, with your strength.  All 7 of us, standing tall, proud, sure & decisive - and brave - as you would want & have taught us to be.

The future is ours for the taking, and we will seize it all together.  We will not let you down.

Go towards the light, Mommy.  Fly and go to God.  Do not worry about us.  Your death came swiftly, but you have left and will leave the fires of hope, love and courage burning within each one of us.  We will not let you down.

Rest in peace, Mommy.  Go to God and catch up with JP.

We love you always.  We will miss you always.

Until we meet again, Mommy.

Arrivederci.



-delivered at my Mommy's last mass on earth, 25 october 2009, Christ the King Seminary, Quezon City.