REMEMBERING AUGUST 22

Today is a special non-working holiday.  Why?  Because it’s been 20 years since the great Benigno Aquino Jr. was felled by a single gunshot wound at the tarmac of the Manila International Airport.

Actually, yesterday, August 21, was the real anniversary of Ninoy’s death.  But since the historic date fell on a Thursday, good ol’ GMA decided to move the commemoration of Mr. Aquino’s heroic death to a Friday. (The better for us working people to enjoy the long weekend, I guess.)

Various memories of my childhood with Mommy Lily

So, what makes the day special, anyway?  An extra day to sleep in and wake up late?  For most people this day may just be one of those holidays.  But definitely not for me.  Because today, I grieve.  For exactly a day after Rolando Galman allegedly shot the great senator, in the middle of a nationwide blackout, my mother passed away.

It was a school day.  I remember wearing my new P.E. uniform for the first time that day.  Mom was already in the hospital then.  In fact, she had been in the hospital for the last two months or so.  She was confined in the ICU, already at the final round of her fight against breast cancer.  Of course, we—­­as in my brothers, my sister and I—didn’t know that.  We thought she was getting better, and that one day, she would be coming home and things will be back to normal.  No, she wasn’t dying.  She was gonna get well.

At around lunchtime, our neighbor Aling Cel, came to the school to pick us up.  She didn’t tell us why she was picking us up though.  In fact, nobody told us why we were being picked up—not our teachers, nor principals, nor Mom’s best friend who worked as one of the school’s staff.  Aling Cel simply asked us to get our school bags because we were going home.  I even remember thinking that maybe, that was the day we were going to Baclaran or Quiapo or the Manila Cathedral to hear Mass together—Daddy, Mommy, Jay, Mia, Don and I—as thanksgiving for Mom’s victory over her illness.

The jeepney ride from San Juan to Mandaluyong was uneventful.  I’ve taken that route 7,000 times since I was a pre-schooler with missing front teeth.  When we got home, I didn’t notice anything unusual either.  The house was quiet and dark and it smelled clean.  It was always looked and smelled like that at noontime.  It was the kind of look and smell that lulls you to take a nap on a banig rolled out on the cold floor.

However, this look and smell was suddenly shattered by my youngest brother’s voice.  “Ate, patay na daw si Mommy?”

Mommy?  Dead?  What was this silly boy talking about? 

I remember looking quizzically at Aling Cel, but she didn’t offer an answer.  The only time it finally hit me was when I saw my Tita Mary walking towards me, tears welling incessantly from her eyes.

I couldn’t say that the world stopped spinning and that a pain so great rushed to me that it knocked me out at that particular moment.  As a matter of fact, I couldn’t remember feeling anything.  There was no hugging and crying, no tears mixing with saliva, no wailing.  We kids just sat there on the sofa—all four of us—as our adult relatives started coming one after the other. 

Well, they were crying.  But they were crying among themselves!  It was like we kids weren’t supposed to be let in on a secret, so they left us alone and, well… cried.  The next thing we knew, we were on our way to Batangas to wait for my mom’s body.

Fast forward 2003.  It’s August 1, and I am face to face with a counselor.  I was caught unaware by one of her questions: “Have you ever grieved your mother’s death?”

I couldn’t answer her question.  Maybe because until now, I didn’t know what grief meant.  I tried to recall the next few days after Mom left us, and I could not remember any instance when I was hugged or comforted by anyone during her wake.  I can’t remember anybody who allowed me to just cry and cry until all my tears ran dry. 

“Maybe those tears are still there inside,” my counselor said.

Wow.  If those tears are really still in here, 20 years after my mother died, then I must be like a dam that’s waiting to burst!

And so today, I decide to burst.  Today, I’m going somewhere private.  I’ll bring flowers and candles and just sit there.  Today, I will grieve.  Grieve over the times my Mommy and I should’ve spent days shopping for clothes and makeup.  Grieve over the days when Mom and I should’ve shared hours and hours talking about love and life.  Grieve over all the movies we should’ve cried with and laughed at together.  Grieve over the days when we should’ve shared tears over my lost loves.  Grieve over not being able to share with her my victories and achievements.  Grieve over the times when Mom and I should’ve fought, and later on kissed and made up.  Grieve over the days when we could’ve exchanged e-mails and texts messages.

Yes, today I grieve.  Because tomorrow, I start to live.

I wrote this last August 21, 2004.  I never got the chance to have it published, so I placed it here.  It's now 28 years since my mom passed away.