“I haven’t read you that new story that I wrote about Lolo, have I?” I ask Carlo as we are walking home through our street from a memorial luncheon outside of town one afternoon. “We’ll have to go to my grandfather’s backyard though.”
“Why do we have to go there for this one? Can’t you just have me read it?”
“No, I have to read it aloud; Lolo has to hear it, and he can’t read, remember?”
So we stop by at my Lolo’s old house where I live now, and proceed towards the backyard where my favorite tree stands. We sit on the huge branch on its left side; I take my old notebook out, and begin to read.
“You’re looking a fine green today, hija,” he said as he dragged himself out of the front door and into the porch.
“You should sun yourself here, lolo.”
“Thank you, hija, but I’ve already had my share of the sun earlier,” he replied as he sits on his big chair.
We’d been telling him to use the cane, but he adamantly refused. “What for?” he’d say. “I can walk fine. Besides, I’d want to move around as much as I can, while I can.”
In the past few months, Lolo could hardly bend his joints without taking too much time. If he was in pain, he tried his best not to reveal it. Everyone knew the time for passing was coming; I just didn’t expect to be his witness that afternoon, when I was fifteen.
Things remained normal in our part of town. A friend, fresh from a trip outside the country, was back to selling his trinkets right outside their house. Another neighbor, a very interesting old pair and among our very good friends, had just gotten themselves a cute little pup that they showed me yesterday afternoon when my grandfather and I went to visit. They waved as they passed. The street was littered with people out for a walk on that lazy Saturday afternoon, with the sun was at 4 o’clock.
Most summer days were spent in my grandparents’ house. I preferred their house, even if they lived in the same street as we did. It felt like trip out of town, what with their large house made of the wood of our ancestors, and a huge lawn behind it, with huge trees; and oh, the stories he told, made up or otherwise. These were among the best things I looked forward to in the afternoons. He was a chatty old man, and I loved that about him. In particular I had taken a huge interest in his stories of ghosts. This, he said, were stories of the peoples from the other side of the world. Sometimes, death to them was a rather tragic event, and their souls would live on to stay in some places. I couldn’t imagine the concept in its entirety. I found it such a sad affair for them.
“Do you remember your great-great-grandfather?” he asked me.
“Yes, Lolo. The dining table, yes?” I remember this story well. He’s told me a hundred times, like aging people do, but I loved hearing it over and over.
“That’s right. He stood right beside his wife out in the backyard. But did you know that when your great grandfather asked for permission, not only did he shed his leaves in reply, but so did his wife?”
“And so that’s why they’re both all over the kitchen!”
Lolo fell silent and closed his eyes; then he tilted his head up, craned his neck a bit to listen to the wind.
Some say that when one gets called back to the earth, one hears the earth singing. And it never calls anyone who is alone. I was my grandfather’s chosen witness, and the earth granted his heart’s request.
“I wish to stand beside your grandmother for a few years at least before anyone does anything. Tell your father that, you hear?” he said, as he stood up to walk.
“Where are you going, Lolo?” I asked. Curious as I was at what I knew was about to happen, I still felt a bit of dread.
“Follow me, hija, I’ll show you my last story.” He kept walking towards the back, where my grandmother had been standing for a year now. “Hello there, langga,” he greeted the gmelina tree.
My grandfather took his clothes off; his skin was a very pale green mottled with brown all over, and his joints had turned to bark. It seemed to me a difficult task for him, so I stood to help, but he said, “No, hija, sit there and wait until I hand you my clothes.” Resigned to the role given me, I obliged.
My mother had prepared me early on to know what to do when witnessing a transformation. When he was done, I took his clothes and folded them carefully as he walked towards the spot beside Lola. At most, I expected the transformation to be complete in yet a few days. I had to sit there, Lolo’s clothes beside me, until it was done. My mother would find me there after the house help ran screaming towards our house at 7:30.
I looked up. He said, “Tell your Tito Alex to join the ritual in a few days when I'm done here. Now it’s your turn to tell the stories. Your friend who sells trinkets, what’s his name? He’s a good fellow; maybe you can start telling your stories to him. Now, don’t cry, I’ll grow a sturdy branch for you to sit on.”
He smiled, closed his eyes, and began to take root.
