This was written when I was still a Journalism student back in my college years. Inspired by my friend who posted his college essay in his blog, I'll post mine too! LOL!
Here goes...
I knew that something was wrong. The atmosphere suddenly became the one I feared the most since the announcement of my grandfather’s terrible sickness. We quickly packed our things and headed North to our province,
Candon, Ilocos Sur, for the nine-day wake of my grandfather. We were all quiet during the eight-hour trip, knowing that our fears would come to reality.
When we got there, we were greeted by our grandmother who quickly burst into tears the moment she hugged us, muttering, “Wala na ang Daddy niyo…!” Naturally, we all wept with her. After we had seen the corpse of my grandfather lying in his coffin, we unpacked our things and had a chat with our other relatives.
I went out and talked to my second cousins who were just around my grandparents’ house. Our chat somehow lessened the sadness I was feeling inside. I looked around and only then did I realize that the orchids and plants my grandmother grew were gone and toldas were built instead. And people were playing bingo, cards, and the old men were drinking beers. There were a lot of people just going in and out of the house and everyone seemed to know each other. That’s how it will always be in our little barrio.
When I got home, I saw that my mother and aunts were already wearing the black veil for mourning. Then, my cousin handed me a black pin and told me to wear it. Before dinner, my grandmother got a platito and put a piece or two of everything we had for dinner and a glass of water,which is called atang, and put it on the table beside my lolo’s coffin. They believed that the dead should still be given food. After dinner, two old women arrived. People helping us in my lolo’s funeral arranged the chairs and the prayer session started. My cousins and I sat silently and listened to every word said although we did not understand any of it. The prayers were in deep Ilokano. This we did every morning and afternoon during the nine-day wake.
The next day, some of my grandfather’s friends will arrive for the eulogy. As we listened to their experiences with our lolo, we couldn’t help but cry with them, not because he was gone, but because only then did we realize that our lolo had touched and helped so many lives during his stay here on earth.
One of the amusing incidents at the wake was when one of my aunts decided to take a bath. She had already gone to the bathroom when my lola knocked on her door. Surprised, she asked why and my lola told her that the immediate family of the dead must not take a bath inside the house during the wake. We had to laugh at that, because we really couldn’t think of any reason or logical explanation. My poor aunt had to go and dry herself quickly. Luckily, my grandmother’s niece was willing to let her and her other siblings take a bath in their house. When she was through and was about to comb her hair in our house, she was again stopped because the immediate family members of the dead must not comb their hair inside the house during the wake. Obviously, we all laughed thinking that my lola was joking. But of course, it’s tradition, and if you’re there, you have to abide by it.
Then, finally, night came. The most awaited time of the day when all can have a rest. But some of my aunts had to stay beside our lolo’s coffin. It was a rule there never to leave a corpse without company at any time. My mom and her siblings had to alternately accompany our lolo during the night.
My cousins and I were very unfortunate since it was also a tradition there that the immediate family of the dead must not do any of the household chores. We had to be the ones to do the laundry, wash the dishes and prepare the table for dinner. But of course, it wasn’t such a burden since many of our other relatives were always willing to help even in small ways.
When the ninth day of the wake was over, all of us were so busy. The manongs were busy slaughtering the 2 pigs intended after the burial; the manangs were busy preparing the dishes and plates; and we were busy preparing for the burial procession. When the burial procession started, we were advised not to look back at the house once we left it. In the church, we were all quiet listening to the priest although again, my cousins and I couldn’t understand any word spoken. Before the mass ended, we each had a look at our lolo’s coffin and gave him a white rose. Then, we went to the cemetery. We all cried our hearts out since this would be the last we will see our beloved lolo. Mixed emotions we felt, but mainly joy. Joy, for he would no longer endure the pain from his terrible sickness and be able to live now an eternal life with God.
Upon returning, we were advised not to take the route we had taken when we left for the burial. It was best to take another route. Perhaps because it signaled that we are now on another road and we will not take the path again that we had just passed. And perhaps because it also reminded us that the past must remain to be the past and not let it burden us along our way. What greeted us upon entering the house was the delicious smell of dishes served. Among those were the tupig, mechado, dinuguan and Ilocos Sur’s pride, the igado. We all had full stomachs after enjoying the feast.
But our trip and the funeral did not end there. The next day, we went to the beach for what they call the gulgol. The immediate family, before diving into the great waters of the sea, had to line up and be poured with sand and vinegar and splashed with water that first went through the bao containing burned hay and the blood of a chick. Then, they must head straight to the water to rinse and have a little fun. They believe that by doing this, the sadness were feeling about the loss would be lessened. And again, when we went back, we had to take another route, different from the one we took when we left for the beach.
Our trip to our province, unlike any other trip, was a combination of joy and sadness. It was a big blow for me since that was the first time I lost a relative so close to me. And it was a first to see my lola, mom, aunts and uncles cry so hard over losing something so precious to them. I thought that the tears that must be shed must be tears of joy. Because isn’t it that the ultimate end of humans is to be with God? So then I thought that the dead are fortunate because they are finally given the chance to meet God and therefore be able to understand, clarify the mysteries that surround Him. After that, I told myself that I didn’t want to see anymore crying over a lost loved one but I knew deep in my heart that I wouldn’t be able to escape that reality, even though I’ve said such profound words.
It’s really hard to go looking for God sometimes. Waiting for Him to appear is even harder to do. But the hardest I think is not acknowledging the fact that He will come and find you, living with nothing to look forward to everyday because you do not accept “the reality of God” that other people rejoice in and live with everyday.