Blessings

The greatest blessing God has given me is my love for my parents. It is a covenant. For richer or for poorer — I love them just the same. In sickness or in health — I helped take care of them. Till death do us part — I still honor Cresencio Sr., 15 years after his passing, and Candida, two years after she left, by celebrating them, their memories, their legacy.

The legacy they left us with is not a lofty inheritance. They left us with moments and memories that are packed with lessons that have become our yardstick in life. To honor them means to do good in life so we can do good for others.

At 53, I still find myself amused by how they did things when they were still alive. How practically having nothing as a young couple did not deter them from putting food on the table even if it meant having the sun on their back for the backbreaking demands of farming.

My father was a tenant for decades. One day, his landlord sold the rice field and my father came home empty handed from the sale. He accepted his fate and just told his sons that whatever he did not get, his children would get with their own sweat and hard work in time. He believed in finding peace in silence.

His death brought about an immense loss to our family. His passing means I had to think like him in making decisions that would need his input. When my father died, a stronger me was born. He remains my hero and, occasionally, I borrow his imaginary cape to make me fly.

One afternoon, while biking around the paved roads in the middle of the remaining rice fields in Gulod, I biked past the taklab of my childhood. It’s a makeshift structure built around the mechanism used for irrigation. In my childhood, the taklab used to have a big metal pipe protruding from its wall. This pipe spewed water right straight to a small rectangular pool. Because we couldn’t afford to rent swimming pools in nearby Pansol, my father allowed me to enjoy the strong gush of water in the taklab. He also taught me to climb the duhat tree next to the structure. The taklab, albeit rundown, is still there, with beautiful memories.

Memories are important because they fortify the soul. Memories are reminders of love.

When my mother passed away, everything shifted to unfamiliar territory. All of a sudden, my weekends have become a space almost everybody can own. But many times, Saturdays and Sundays are a space I discover alone. Those days used to be reserved for Nanay. My fingernails are not clipped regularly because the simple search for the nail cutter is tedious. She was the nail cutter keeper at home. The food in the kitchen tastes differently. And no matter how I copy her paksiw na pata, my version would always lack something — a dash of pepper, a sprinkle of salt, a dusting of love.

Losing my mother was like being thrown out of my comfort zone. She said it best when she was still alive: “You will always need a mother no matter your age.” So her last thoughts before she died were of her mother for she was looking for her as she laid supine on her death bed.

My strongest armory is not my intellect or my capacity to earn. My mother was my strongest armor. Because she was strong, I had the leniency to be weak from time to time for she was my shield, my protector, my insulation, my breastplate — round-the-clock.

I miss coming home and finding her in our veranda, ready with a smile, her lips tinted with red lipistik, her face dusted with baby powder. I miss the feeling that she knew something was wrong just by feeling the weight of my embrace. And she thawed it by leading me to the dining table with her kitchen creations that were still piping hot.

Now the silence at home becomes much louder each day. Coming home from work is emotional because nobody waits for me anymore. No one calls in the middle of the day to check on me, “Nabasa ka ba sa ulan? Mag-jacket ka.” Many times, more so at night, I catch myself playing all the videos I took of her in my phone. “Tama na, Bumburuchay,” she would caution me if she wanted the video recording to stop. No one calls me Bumburuchay anymore.

Did I make my parents happy? I always have that question in my mind. The question is coming not from guilt but from the desire to provide more for them. If I could have one more day with Nanay and Tatay, I would book us a flight anywhere. I always wondered how my parents would react if they were together on a plane. My father was already weak when I could afford to take him on a flight anywhere. My mother was most comfortable airborne. She loved riding the plane and watching the clouds outside the window. She, too, wondered, how it could have been if she were traveling with her husband on a plane.

I always have flights of fancy every time I visit my parents in the cemetery. Thank God the memorial garden is just a five-minute walk from the house. Often, I start the day visiting them in their resting place. I celebrate them every day in my thoughts.

To celebrate them means to remember the lessons learned from them.

“Live within your means. Return what you borrowed. Don’t steal.” Those were the teachings of my father.

“Dream. Live a life without pretense. Be kind. Tell the truth always. Love your family.” Those were the guideposts from my mother.

When life presents a challenge or necessitates a solution, I ask myself: “What would Nanay and Tatay do if they were still alive to address the concern?” I always find the answer in my heart because their teachings are always a voice in my head.

My past was peppered with hardship because I was born to parents who had mostly grit to survive. I always thank God for the opportunity to have served my parents well while they were still alive.

God is good. What He has blessed me with now is more than what I prayed for when I was kid — because my parents left me a legacy of faith and grit in my heart.

The greatest gift I have ever received from God is the love I have for my parents. Even in death, they are my blessings. *

The ‘taklab’ of my childhood proves that memories are reminders of love.

Photo by Büm Tenorio Jr.