I DO not have a treasure chest of photographs with my grandmother. I have no tranche of memories of how she baked me cookies or tucked me to bed or sang me lullabies. I do not remember ever giving her a best-grandma-in-the-world birthday card. I cannot even remember her voice.
What I do have is a story—one that is enough to show me her love in its purest form.
Ayaw niyang mauna (She did not want to go first).
Hanging on a living-room wall of our ancestral house is a portrait of a woman I wished I knew more. Sans the wrinkles and spectacles, she would have looked the same as I remember. Her features revealed her personality—gentle, modest, no nonsense—or at least, that’s what I had been told. She is Consolacion Vargas, my grandmother, a catechism teacher. She would have been the perfect person to impart words of wisdom to a lost soul like me. But alas, time was not on our side.
Ayaw niyang mauna. Kasi sino raw mag-aalaga sa Tita Corro kung wala na siya (She did not want to go first. She was asking who would take care of your Tita Corro once she’s gone).
Nanay Acion used to live with her eldest, my aunt Socorro; but unlike the usual Filipino family setup, it was not so that Tita Corro could look after the matriarch. It was actually the other way around. My grandmother, in her late 80s, insisted on attending to my aunt’s health concerns, even if Tita Corro is herself a senior citizen.
I guess this was why growing up, I always thought of them as an inseparable pair.
“We have to go home and visit Nanay Acion and Tita Corro.”
“Kiss Nanay Acion and Tita Corro goodbye.”
“Include Nanay Acion and Tita Corro in your prayers.”
I had no concept of Nanay Acion alone or Tita Corro alone. Always, they went together. And true enough, they “went” together.
“Ayaw niyang iwan ang Tita Corro” (She did not want to leave your Tita Corro).
Most of my memories of Nanay Acion had faded into oblivion. But I have a couple that I believe would be forever etched in my mind.
She and Tita Corro used to watch television all the time. My mom told me they would religiously wait for the prayers during commercial breaks. But every time I enter the living room, Nanay Acion would look away from whatever she was watching to flash me a smile. Always, perhaps, unfailingly.
I may not have a wealth of moments with her, but her gentle eyes told me she loved me. Her eyes would always look like someone just gave her a present every time she smiled at me. And that for me was enough.
The other, more prominent memory of her was that of her funeral. My 8-year-old self never really understood what was happening then. All I knew was that she and Tita Corro were old and, like many other aged people, they were moving in with God to heaven.
So before they finally laid her to eternal rest, I just stood there, uncomprehending and almost emotionless, as a cousin bawled her heart out, desperately trying to embrace Nanay Acion’s casket one last time.
These little snippets of memories would never be enough. But, at least, I would never forget how she loved and how she was loved.
“Kaya hinintay niya muna bago siya sumunod” (Which is why she waited before she went).
Nanay Acion passed away nine days after my Tita Corro breathed her last and it was no coincidence. She was, after all, her reason for staying alive. For the last time, they went together.
My grandmother refused to take a break from looking after her children even as they aged. When she should have been the one being pampered, she did not have any of it. She chose to be the one to give rather than the one to receive. Nanay Acion was old and frail, but her mind was not on what she needed; it was always about what Tita Corro should be given.
I once asked my mom to tell me about Nanay Acion and this was what she told me: “Ayaw niyang mauna. Kasi sino raw mag-aalaga sa Tita Corro kung wala na siya. Ayaw niyang iwan ang Tita Corro kaya hinintay niya muna bago siya sumunod.”
My grandmother, a catechism teacher, never had the chance to share with me the wealth of wisdom she has acquired over the years. But from the ethereal realm, Nanay Acion taught me that love, in its purest form, never ceases.