Orphans

The lessons we learned from our parents are our guideposts now that we are total orphans. Tatay left us 13 years ago; Nanay, last May. In the wake of their passing are memories. Because memories have their own morality, we find in them lessons that we carry to this day.

On the eve of All Saints’ Day, my eldest brother Ronnie and I were under the himbaba-o tree in our backyard comparing notes on how we navigate our lives without our parents. We both agreed that though it was a blow when we lost our father, we sailed through life still because we still had a mother. Candida became our ship as well as the captain. She was the sail, the rudder, the mast. She was both the stern and the bow. And even if we were all adults, my siblings and I still gave her the deference any mother should have. We showered her with love. When important family decisions had to be made, always, always the opinion of Candida would be sought—and respected. Mothers know best, they say. The platitude is not only true; it is the golden truth.

Family traditions, though still being observed in our home, have changed if not been recalibrated. For example, the family tradition of cooking suman during undas or All Saints’ Day. (Our parents called it undras.) When Nanay and Tatay were still alive, no undas would pass without them cooking suman sa buli (glutenous rice wrapped in palm leaves with coconut milk) and suman sa lihiya (glutenous rice wrapped in banana leaves with lye water). Both delicacies were cooked separately. Nanay would do all the preparations from sourcing the best leaves to wrapping the suman. Tatay was in charge of putting all the suman in vats, kindling the fire, and making sure our supply of the driest firewood would not run out. My father gathered the firewood months before the occasion so there would be more than enough for the seeming suman cook fest.

When Tatay died, the backbreaking chore all fell on the lap of Nanay. She found help in Kuya Ronnie (for the kindling of fire and cooking between eight and 10 hours) and our youngest brother Rod (for the wrapping of suman). But no one among us inherited the full skill of making suman.

With both our parents gone, this year’s tradition of cooking suman was still observed albeit differently. From the neighborhood Rod ordered raw wrapped suman sa lihiya. Kuya Ronnie initiated the cooking with the rest of his siblings taking turns in sustaining the fire. The firewood used was the chopped dried trunk of our 42-year-old avocado tree that was felled by typhoon Rolly in November 2020.

Rod said Nanay would love it that we would still cook suman no matter what. The five of us brothers were quiet as we did the drill. Grief was still apparent. Many times, the grief was covered by the billowing smoke from the makeshift stove. Sometimes, the grief was well illustrated by silent tears made more evident by the smoke that got in our eyes.

Grief is good, my younger brother Odick said. He continued that Nanay deserves our grief. Odick added it’s okay to feel sad. After all, we were all new to the concept of being total orphans.

Grieving is a tricky feeling. One day it feels like a heavy boulder on the chest. The next day, it’s as light as a feather. Then it becomes again like a hatchet that strikes through heart and mind. But no matter hard or easy it is to deal with grief, my brothers and I are one in riding through the tides.

Grief is love. That I learned from a psychiatrist friend, Dr. Geraldine Mayor, when I interviewed her in 2021.

In the interview, Dr. Mayor told me, “People grieve because people love. Grieving is a celebration of pain and memories. The deeper the grief, the deeper your love must be for that person.”

My brothers and I love our parents deeply. Kuya Gadie remembers how, despite being married with two kids, his life is continuously influenced by our parents. He misses dancing on-the-spot with Nanay to O, Maliwanag na Buwan on nights that are slow, still and warm.

With our parents gone, their five boys are all the legacy they left behind. They must have done something good in raising us because, despite us all being opinionated, we are one. No one has the monopoly of opinion. The “majority wins” style still prevails in decision-making.

Our parents did not leave us anything. No hefty inheritance aside from the lot where we live now. No fat money in the bank.

But they left us with love. And the primary lesson that no matter what happens in our individual life, we should stick together. Never to be difficult. Never to abandon each other and each other’s dream. To speak the truth and say it with loving kindness. Always share. Never to live a life not our own; never to live a life of pretentions. Never to steal.

If inheritance can be qualified, our parents left us with billions of lessons enough to see us through. Love, as an inheritance, is not divided in equal parts. It’s multiplied a thousand times instead. Each of their five sons is a billionaire on his own.

One night, Kuya Gaddie and I were talking about Nanay under the beam of the full moon. The moon was so huge and was hanging low we could almost touch it. We remember the moon worshipper in our mother. She loved the full moon. She loved it because she equated it with prosperity. She was the one who taught me to ask for gifts from the moon when I was a kid. I would wake up with a 10-centavo coin under my pillow after ogling the full moon when I was a child of four or five. Even if I later on discovered it was Tatay doing the magic, I still believe to this day that many times it was the magic of the moon that made it possible for me to wake up 10 centavos richer on several days. I have always kept the child in me; my parents taught me that.

Memories have a way of galvanizing love and truth and happiness in our hearts even if many times grief is debilitating, disconcerting, discouraging. But we were raised victors by our parents so we coast along life well. The wounds in our hearts need no Band-Aid solution. We don’t hanker for any solution. We dwell on it. Grief is love. And we all know we will feel the longing all the more on our birthdays, on Christmas Day, on New Year’s Eve and in many holidays and traditions of our family. Thank God for memories. Thank God for our parents’ love. Thank God for the lessons we learned from them that have become the Post-It notes in our life.

It’s disorienting every time I come home at night to an empty house and all that is left are their portraits by the altar. I consciously bring back the warmth of home when I close my eyes and remember how my brothers and I were loved by Nanay and Tatay.

Did we love our parents enough? The answer is yes. And if we would be given another chance, we would love them even more.

For your new beginnings, e-mail me at [email protected]. I’m also on Twitter @bum_tenorio and Instagram @bumtenorio. Have a blessed weekend.