A Christmas party

The morning of Christmas Day saw me flagging down a tricycle in Gulod for a short ride. Tito, the short and scrawny neighborhood driver, was jolly and helpful enough when I requested him to tie up —one by one on top of his tricycle — a long, collapsible yet light wooden table; a foldaway rocking chair and white monobloc chairs.

Inside the vehicle, I loaded a big basket of food, two big photo frames of my mother and father, a huge pot of poinsettias, a container of mineral water, among others.

I was acting as the family’s advance party for the Christmas celebration last Monday at the cemetery.

Tito started the engine, the scent of gasoline mixing merrily with the Christmas breeze. Both sides of the narrow road running through Gulod were occupied by little children dressed to the nines, doing their house-to-house stint of asking for aguinaldo (monetary gifts) from the elderly. I was once like those kids when I was their age, except my clothes were hand-me-downs. The jolly, frenetic scene has never changed. Perhaps because the spirit of Christmas is the same year after year.

When the number of children on the street diminished, we sped off to Divine Life, the memorial park that serves as the resting place of my parents. The load was obviously heavy as the tricycle squealed while it navigated a three-minute ride from the house to the cemetery. My emotional load, surprisingly, was light, considering it was the first Christmas without Candida. There was pure joy and excitement in my heart. To not be encumbered by sadness on that day was in itself a Christmas miracle. I prayed for that miracle.

The day before was different — it was a silent night albeit the eve of Christmas was not without noise at home. As early as 10 in the morning, the staccato sound of the sharp knife hitting the chopping board — as my youngest brother Rod sliced red onions and other ingredients — produced some music. He was busy in the kitchen cooking hamonado and marinating pork for the Noche Buena barbecue. The aroma was inviting, highlighting the traditional flavor of Christmas at home. (Rod is showing signs that he’s inheriting the kitchen queendom of our mother. After all, he said, he was always the assistant of Candida when she would prepare a feast for the family.)

In our backyard, the Christmas Eve wind was strong under the himbaba-o tree. The short drizzle made the cold breeze trumpet the season all the more. The leaves in the canopy were alive, dancing to the beat and rhythm of the gust. Some dried leaves fell to the ground all at once like little ballerinas pirouetting to the ground. It was like poetry in motion when, at the exact moment of the falling of the leaves, came the perching of our doves — about a hundred of them — on the branches the dried leaves used to occupy. The birds cooed like a choir: a low yet sweet sound they produced.

Nighttime came and there was sepulchral silence inside our home. On our dining table were hamonado, macaroni salad, cakes, Excellente ham, freshly baked monay from the neighborhood bakeshop — a glorious, sumptuous fare in their silence. I had prayers in my heart: “Let it not be heavy when we welcome Christmas. Let our hearts please be light.”

And there was light on Christmas Day.

There was full sunshine when I woke up. The sun was up when I hired the tricycle that brought me to the cemetery on Christmas Day. Hope floated in mid-air. Hope was all we had as a family becoming total orphans this year. Tatay passed away 13 years ago; Nanay, last May.

To hope is to celebrate memories. Death is also a celebration of life. In essence, death is life in a continuum. Every memory is a sequence of hope, a collection of joy and sadness, a progression of faith. A party. Death, like life, is a miracle.

On the morning of Christmas, at the cemetery, a miracle of lightness of the heart happened. Even the striking violet flowers of the Morning Glory, whose vines wound around the perimeters of my parents’ gravesite, were celebrating in their profusion, dancing to the strong breeze. The two sky-blue tents that shadowed the grave were billowing as a strong wind threatened to blow them away. Even the whirring of the wind was celebratory.

With Tito’s help, I set up the party by the tomb of Cresencio Sr. and Candida. “Merry Christmas,” I said when displaying on the floor their picture frames. I had a jamboree in my heart.

Rod, hugging a paper bag of candles as he rode on the back of the motorcycle of our family friend Edzon, followed to the party shortly after. Then, one by one, my other brothers and their children arrived. Even Candida’s best friends, Ate Oma and Inang Deleng, came to celebrate with us for a while.

There was laughter — an avalanche of it. It helped that by nature every member of the family is a joker. We remembered the fun moments with Tatay and the funny antics of Nanay. How she referred to Coke as Korokok and Ferrero Rocher as Kerero.

Up until she died, there was a can of Korokok and a few pieces of Kerero — her first line of defense when her sugar level was low — in her black bag with yellow ribbon embroidery. It was her arm candy every time she had a checkup with her diabetes doctor in the hospital. Sharing prominence with her Korokok and Kerero inside the bag were her Johnson’s Baby Powder, a sandalwood fan and red lipistik. Plus a neatly folded maroon scarf bearing the image of the Nazareno. She died with faith in her heart; her memory never diminished.

We feted Nanay and Tatay with animated stories and promised to build them a mausoleum in time. Meanwhile, a steel trellis is being readied above their tomb. By summertime, the favorite season of Tatay, the Jade Vines must be in full bloom, so will the orange New Guinea Creepers. The violet flowers of Morning Glory will creep, too, to the trellis as the yellow-orange blooms of lantana are having a field day on the ground. Red Morning Glory will try to steal the scene soon. Fuchsia, orange, white, lavender bougainvilleas will also one day find their abundance in our parents’ resting place. Their lives will be celebrated in blooms, in colorful blooms.

From sunrise to sunset, with a feast on the long dining table covered in my mother’s avocado green pashminas, we had merriment with our parents. It was a joyful celebration — a Christmas miracle of a Christmas party. *