Tuesday, September 25, 2007

eulogy

When I was nine, I thought grandmothers lived forever. You see, I knew that mothers broke promises and left you. My grandmother did not hug or kiss children. Her tongue was sharp and her words make the heart bleed. My grandmother was a tyrant, but she was there. As early as I could remember, she had always been there.

When I was growing up, we had crocheted white curtains on the living room windows. There was a matching crocheted table cloth in the dining room. I went home last week and took one of the curtains. I haven’t seen them in years, after my grandmother gave in to the modern times and ordered yellow-gold satin curtains and cream lace curtains. I put the curtain on my dining table as a tablecloth. It must be at least thirty years old. It was delicate, and in places the crochet had unraveled. And as I admired the hard work in the pattern, I thought I could repair the piece. I knew how to crochet; my grandmother had taught me.

Like crocheting, there were so many valuable things I learned from my grandmother that I ignored, or used to laugh at. They are the teachings in life that didn’t make sense when you were nine, or nineteen. Like getting fine furniture to give dignity to your house, or choosing tailored clothes over ready-to-wear ones.

My grandmother taught me never to accept second-best. For her, ‘good enough’ is never enough, from the grades you bring home from school to the service you receive in fast-food restaurants. She taught me that my happiness comes first, because in the end you will be alone, and if you die sad you only have yourself to blame. She was afraid of being alone, of being old, of being forgotten.

If we displeased her, she always threatened to die and haunt us. My grandfather was a submissive, quiet man who never interfered when my grandmother spewed the curses that would befall us if we did not behave. As a result, I never feared ghosts, vampires, and the like, because the Real Thing was alive and could terrorize both young children and old men. Although I vowed to be never like her, I married a quiet man who doesn’t like to fight. My daughter can be silenced with one look from me, and I am notorious for terrorizing call center agents, customer service staff, and parlor beauticians.

My grandmother loved cats. When we were little she adopted orphan cats that slept on the sofa and left so much cat hair on the beds they make you sneeze. The cats defecated inside the house and it stank to high heavens, but she did not have the heart to kick them. When she became bedridden, one cat would always enjoy the ride on her lap when she sat in her wheelchair. As a result, I talk to my cats and allow them to jump up on my back and scratch my clothes. I don’t hate dogs, but I’ve always mistrusted their wet noses, rolling eyes, and waggling tail. Dogs are too big to cuddle.

Her room in the old house looks the same, although she had not slept there for as long as I can remember. She is fond of umbrellas, and there are four new ones hanging behind the door. She likes to take apart old dresses and put together the accents in different outfits, mixing and matching sleeves, collars, belts, appliques, and skirts. In her closet are scraps of Spanish lace and embroidered collars, waiting for her patient hands to recreate into some fashion statement. The towels are individually wrapped in plastic; they are the monogrammed ones that are reserved for when guests arrive. I picked up a tiny ID picture of me when I was a high school sophomore. She kept our photo albums on display in the living room.

My grandmother died last year. I went home for her funeral and helped sort her things. I saw my childhood in the things she kept. There were the kitten-pattern shorts I sewed as a high school project that I could not wear because they were too tight. There was the cross-stitched ‘Home Sweet Home’ wall décor in the fifth grade that she had had framed in carved narra wood. There was my Art Folder, and I remembered that we once had to do artwork using flower and leaf juices, and I broke out in hives from foraging leaves that she said were the best ones. There were the letters I wrote home in my high school and college years, either asking for more rice, or thanking her for sending fruits.

When I visited her grave, I thought I should go home every year to bring flowers and light candles. And I was filled with sorrow to think of all her birthdays that I had allowed to pass, as she wrote letters telling me how sad she was. I think of all the stories she never got a chance to tell me, about her life, about the girl she once had been, about the town I left behind. And I think, perhaps she did not know how to tell me, because I did not know how to ask. I am left with little pieces of her life, the pieces that I live with each day, the lessons that I recall from my childhood.

And now I see my own daughter, so attached to my mother-in-law that she is asking if she could live in her grandmother’s house. She asks for her grandmother’s night light and a little gas lamp, and her grandmother obliges. Her grandmother cuts her hair, allows her to play in the sand, and shows her how to save for a new doll. Tyrant or not, there are things that only grandmothers can teach.

When the crocheted curtain-turned-tablecloth is complete, I will try something else. Like cooking sweetened sticky rice, or making a patchwork blanket from scrap cloth. The way she taught me, the way I remember. Because I was right all along. Grandmothers live forever. They are in their granddaughters’ hearts.

Friday, September 21, 2007

letting go

My daughter grew up attached to a little bolster pillow that she had named ‘Baby.’ I made Baby’s blue-and-yellow pillowcases when I was still pregnant; I sewed them by hand in my graveyard shifts at the call center. I would re-stuff Baby when it became flat at least twice a year.

My daughter never went anywhere without Baby. She could not sleep without Baby. She dragged Baby while playing, while eating, and on trips. In one of our vacations I forgot to bring an extra pillowcase for Baby, and it became dirty. My daughter cried as Baby’s ‘dress’ was washed and she waited as it dried on the clothesline. Baby often stank because my daughter would rub the end of the pillow against her mouth as she waited to fall asleep.

When my daughter turned five, we talked to her about Baby. We said she was growing up, and it was time to outgrow Baby. Besides, the pillowcase is already too frayed and faded from five years of washing, since she never wanted Baby to change dresses. She cried.

We scheduled a shopping trip to buy Baby’s replacement. We had agreed on a soft doll that she could still hug when she went to sleep. She would choose the doll, then we would put Baby in a plastic bag for putting in the trash. Which was what we did, although the day was punctuated by little sobs as she prepared to say goodbye to Baby.

She slept poorly on the first night without Baby, but after a few days she declared that she loved the new doll, which she named Sabrina.

Sabrina wore a pink dress and had little knickers. Sabrina also had the habit of disappearing whenever my daughter misbehaved, so my daughter got very cautious about offending Sabrina. As a result, they got along well most days, and the house is peaceful.

After a year, Sabrina lost her button nose, and my daughter said Sabrina was getting ugly with age. Already she would forget Sabrina when she runs out to play. I know that she would soon prefer more ‘grown-up toys’ as she declares ‘I’m a big girl now!’ It would not be too long before she gives up the doll.

We could learn a lot about letting go from little kids who say goodbye to old bolster pillows. The same could be said for broken hearts, lost loves, dead pets, wallets left on buses, and stolen boyfriends. We could cry a little, then it’s time to move on. Sometimes we outgrow the hurt, sometimes we forget. Sometimes we always remember, but we live with the loss.

Because there is a reason why we have to let go of things. It’s either something better will come your way, or you were never meant to hold it forever.

Monday, September 10, 2007

lotion lesson


I have always loved body lotions. My favorite is Ralph Lauren Goodbye Dry, which has body shimmer. Then there's Dove lotion, which is sooo difficult to find in the local department stores. At home, we have Vaseline, Body Shop, Jergens, Avon Skin-So-Soft, and Johnson's Baby Lotion. I prefer lotions over perfume and cologne, and I love slathering it on after a bath. If there are women who drool over makeup, I get my fix from body lotions.

So you can imagine my pleasure at receiving lotions as gifts from my husband's two brothers, who are both seamen. I usually get Victoria's Secret's Strawberries and Champagne. Last night, I got a different one, Pear Glace. So I was excited to put it on, which I did this morning.

And on this morning, in my brown giraffe print dress, a beaded belt, dangling earrings, luxuriating in the feel of my new lotion, I felt good. That was, until we hit the traffic. I was riding on the left side of the van, in direct sunlight from Alabang, through SLEX, all the way to C-5 and coming into Pasig. That was a two-hour ride. And all the time, I felt like I was steaming in my scent. I thought I smelled like the air freshener used by airconditioned buses going to Laguna, only. By the time I reached the office, I was badly nauseated. I was also sweating, my arms were sticky, and I had the beginnings of a headache. It's almost lunch time, and I'm still groaning.

Next time I'll save the lotion for when I'm already in the office. At least it's airconditioned, and if my scent fills up the office, well then, at least I won't feel so much like I'm polluting the environment.

Friday, September 7, 2007

ignorance

you don't ask, and so you don't know
you don't mind, and so you don't know
you don't care, and so you don't know
you don't think
you don't dare
you don't love, dream, or share
you don't try, fight, or play

you don't know
you don't live
and you don't know
why

Wednesday, September 5, 2007

elephant sitting on my heart

tusky, pink, wrinkled
little elephant
bright merry eyes
floppy ears, swishy tail
moving along on cat's feet
ambling, stumbling, fumbling
for the sun and dust baths
magnificent, regal
playful oh so naughty
looking for a place
to rest your wandering soul
tested my cold empty heart
and sat
and sat
and sat
and warmed it
liked it too much
grown bigger--
no more place, no space
to take even a mouse.
won't go away.
cruel little elephant
is it my fault
you stayed?

Tuesday, September 4, 2007

haunted houses

I read 'The Diary of Ellen Rimbauer: My Life at Rose Red.' Fond as I am of the horror genre ever since I read Stephen King's 'Firestarter' when I was thirteen, this one gave me the creeps. (Well, a little.) Perhaps it's the understanding that this one is not a work of fiction. With stories like 'The Tommyknockers' or 'Carrie,' you know somehow that some horribly twisted and magnificently imaginative mind created them. When it's a diary, an element of delicious horror is added.

I do not discount the existence of haunted houses. I respect those who believe in the supernatural and have experienced unexplainable things. I used to live in a house that, although may not be classified as haunted, was a little bit strange. One would glimpse movement in the mirrors or see reflections of things that are not in the room. Or one would hear chairs being dragged at night, someone sweeping the upstairs floor with a hard broom, or knocking on doors when nobody is there.

But because I grew up with all those things, I thought all houses were like that. As children, we never asked what those things were. The adults brushed us away, saying it was our imagination. We got used to it. We only grew closer together, all staying in one place. We did not sleep in the rooms, but in the hallway, beside each other. We washed plates together, studied in the living room together, climbed the stairs at night together.

Now perhaps I should ask. Perhaps old houses have ugly histories, and perhaps they have memories. Perhaps they have a 'presence.' If those things are not for us to understand, at least we could accept, as long as we are not harmed.