On a hot summer morning forty years ago, the 13th
of April 1972, our family was faced with a tragedy whose effects created
repercussions in our lives. A mother of
seven, with the youngest barely 3 years old, lost the battle to cancer.
She is my mother. I was five years old when she left. No
faculties to capture and preserve precious memories of her. And the only memory
I preserve was that fateful day she died. I woke up around 7 in the morning
amid the sound of siren that signal the time of day. And when I opened my eyes,
I saw our maid, Lilia, crying and telling me that my mother is dead.
When I went down, I saw a commotion in her room. I sat on
the stairs and wept. And the image that forever will haunt me was when she was
transferred from her room to the coffin waiting in our sala.
Growing up, I collected snippets and anecdotes of her, mostly
from my grandmother. And these became like jigsaw puzzle, where piece by piece,
I slowly got to know her.
Before she died, she kept a black book, where most of her
thoughts are written, and a letter addressed to my Lola. The book, as she has
instructed, can only be read by us, when we reach the age of reason. The book
was held for safekeeping by my Lola until such time that each one of us was be
given a chance to read it.
I was allowed to read its contents after I graduated from
college. Then, I got to know her
thoughts, her love for us, and the pain she went through battling cancer.
There, I came to know her better. Its contents will forever be kept close in
our hearts. Its message is enough to guide us through our day to day life. The
words short but straightforward, delivered straight to our heart. No wonder, it
was kept from us when we were young, because the message will not be digested
by our young minds. That it will take all of our growing up experiences to
understand her and the words written on that book.
When I was young, I usually question God why He took her
early, when our wings weren’t strong enough to fly. That had she been given at
least a couple of years for us to gain enough capacity to store memories of
her, things would have been different.
But reading that book, I came to accept that my thought
was of selfishness. That it was better then, to take her soon, than let her
suffer long.
Forty years to the day she left us, but the pain is as
fresh as today’s. But we all grew up fine, guided by a mother whose love for
her children nurtured us in spirit to continue with only a memory of her. And a
strong conviction that every pain and struggles we faced were no match to what
was going on her mind during those times. The pain of the disease and of
leaving behind her children without the guidance of a mother.
To Mama, we did fine. Thanks a lot for those caring
words. Thanks a lot to the guidance you gave us. We all know that in every
milestones in our lives, you were up there watching. And proudly say, “That’s
my children.”
