It’s been three years, and it still feels strange—strange that she’s no longer here. It feels like only yesterday... but I guess it's a distant kind of yesterday, when she was still in the other room, lying on her wooden bed, its headboard wallpapered with cute teddy prints. She was breathing—heavier than a couple of years before. Her face had thinned with age, eyes unfocused, as if she was seeing more ghosts than people. Even just a sip of water took big, labored gulps through a plastic straw.
I still remember that afternoon. I thought it was just another COVID-filled day. It was the same date as today. Who would have thought that three years later, I’d still be fighting tears over her loss?
It was just another day of tapping and clicking at work. I remember the last long glance I had at her before that night. I had gone downstairs to get myself a glass of ice water. It was summer, and I felt drenched. Nanay was sleeping peacefully. Looking back now, I feel so sad. She had grown thinner than I remembered. She used to be so full of fire for a grandmother: long face, lips always tight, eyes flaring with emotion. She was an Amazona—truly. Born in 1931, a product of traumatic wars, she survived life’s cruelties and had no choice but to be angry at the world. Maybe that was the only way she knew how to live. She had a glorious past behind her, and now the only way to feel her breathe again is to remember the good old days while trying to silence the lingering guilt I still carry from the night I tried to revive her.
Nayyyy!
I let out a long, whimpering whisper of pain through her name. I thought that mumbling it into the dead air of April 28th might somehow fill her lungs again, as if her name alone could breathe life back into her while I kept pumping her chest.
I didn’t understand why they were just standing there beside me, looking down at her frail, unresponsive body—only weeping, only wiping their faces. Why weren’t they helping me call her back to life?
I wouldn’t stop. I kept pressing on her chest, even as the painful knowing crept in that... all the air inside her had already left.
Nayyyy...
One more pump.
Two more. This time, a little faster.
Three, I guess.
They were already holding my wrist to stop me. I looked at them—full of anger, frustration, and a thousand whys. Why weren’t you helping me?
Again.
I don’t remember how many pumps I did, or how numb my wrists had become. The last thing I remember was heaving, hopeless, detached from my own body. I had no energy left, not even to cry. Then... slowly... the cold began to spread through her body. The warmth of her long days had drained away. The fingers I was holding onto—lanky and lifeless—sent a shiver down my spine. In just a split second, she depleted. Her cheeks vanished from her face. Her mouth hung open, softly, as if her spirit had slipped out from there and joined the evening breeze. Her whole frame looked like those skeleton models I used to see in science class back in grade school.
That night, it was hard for me to cry and because of that, I felt like I was a bad granddaughter. We were too busy accommodating visitors to properly mourn her. It was 2022, and we were still under lockdown. And it wasn’t the kind of funeral Nanay deserved.
We offered forced smiles, instant coffee, biscuits, and small, polite words. We were only allowed three days for the wake. And for those three days, we were tired but moving—sad and busy—running papers, counting paper money. Three days felt too short to mourn her, yet weirdly long, like the funeral had gone on forever.
And during those three days, I didn’t cry. I didn’t even peek into her coffin. I didn’t want to let her go. The face I wanted to remember was the one from when she was still alive—the one always frowning, scowling, irritated by life, by the noise of the neighborhood, even by the sound of people breathing. But those faces were also full of endurance, forgiveness, and love. They were the faces that, even after three years, I still wish and pray to see... if only in a nightmare.
If ghosts were real, how I wish she would haunt me. She was a scary Asian granny but she was exactly what I need.
On the last night of her funeral, I cried finally. My body shook from such intense weeping I thought I could die. It was the first time I saw her face since she left. She was pretty (still pretty scary hehe). No amount of cosmetics could hide the loveliness dressed in anger. She looked at peace, as if simply taking one of her routine afternoon naps under the blazing summer sun.
It has been three years, and everything is still so clear to me. So clear that it feels like the Thea who tried to revive her that night never really left that moment...stuck there until today. I can still see her—lost, gawking at that deserted bed, questioning the world and blaming the heavens over and over. She’s still there, with no lights on, alone. Maybe afraid. Maybe already used to the dark. Sometimes she still struggles to take even the smallest step, to open the door and come out.
It has already been three years, and it’s still heavy. Still strange.
Sometimes it feels like she’s just away—maybe on vacation. Maybe she went back to Cebu, her hometown. Or maybe she walked to Baclaran Church to pray. Maybe she’s just strolling around the neighborhood, scolding street kids for being too loud.
Three years have passed, and I’m still here. Still carrying guilt for all the things I did wrong to her.
Nay, I still haven’t had a good cry.
I wonder... when will I be able to?
I miss you… so much that sometimes I wish I were just there with you already.
Why does life make us crumble?
Why does it have to be this hard?
Why does it feel like the only way to live is to survive?
Do I even deserve to be happy—or not, because I was a bad person? Why is it so easy to believe the worst about yourself?
It’s so hard sometimes, Nay.
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