Nanay's song.
She had a soft singing voice. Calm and soothing, a total surprise for anyone who had heard her train Red Cross volunteers or banter with her fellow Toast Masters.
She sang it beautifully. Sang it absent-mindedly. Sang it a lot on Sunday mornings, when Nat King Cole was scheduled on RJFM, and I'd sometimes watch her while I cooked or crocheted - she scribbling on her journals, playing with the African lovebirds, or just staring at the fish tank.
At times, she sang it sadly. Her scribbling slowing at certain parts of the song, and she would stop: lost in her own thoughts; her gaze far off... to some place only she could see in her mind. A secret island she often went, but could never take me to.
There are just some oceans and distances that even the strongest of loves could never swim through.
Then she'd pick up, sweetly smiling away a tear that always threatened to fall from the corner of an eye. A classic steel butterfly. My mother.
It's been 4 years since I first wrote this for her babang luksa. I remember someone telling me, "Hindi naman talaga bumababa ang luksa. It just takes on different forms, and we learn to cope with it".
I wish I could say that he was wrong. That grief ends after a year, or 5... maybe ten?
But, no.
A lot has happened since Nanay's last "goodnight" 5 years ago. Grief has indeed shape-shifted into many forms: sometimes as small victories, sometimes as almost-joys. Sometimes, as deeper sorrows... that I will have to live with.
And through it all, still be able to #smile.
