What was the last thing you talked about with your mom? Ten years later, I can’t seem to remember for sure. Was it when I was squatting on the floor, administering an enema (please don’t Google what it means) that morning? Or maybe when I was feeding her dark chocolate ice cream upon orders of her strange doctor who always dressed in white? Maybe it was when my brother Manu and I watched her crying in the shower. I don’t quite recall all the details anymore.
I remember bits and pieces. The night before when I thought I was going to lose you, I asked for your pain to be taken away. When I pressed publish on that post, everything flashed forward. I remember how you made a missed video call to your siblings by some fluke of technology around the same time you died. I remember looking at coffins with Kuya Mong, pressured with the decision of choosing where you would lie. I remember not sleeping that night. I remember Manu telling me that I was shouting in my sleep the first night I got to close my eyes. I remember dreaming about you the first night I slept in my own bedroom again. You checked up on me just like you always had every night before you were gone. I remember one week later when everything was normal but not. I remember how Nior and I would cook breakfast every Sunday, maybe our way of coping? I don’t know.
There are days when I think maybe I’m okay but then I watch something or hear something and I tear up all over again. Maybe it’s true that you’ll never really forget the pain of losing someone, but I hope I’ll always remember these bits and pieces of you I have in my memory.
I love and miss you always.
