As early as the morning, I stood in front of our house’s gate wearing my heavy backpack while carrying my paper filled folder, waiting for my service to go to school. And as always, my lolo would stand or roam around me with nothing but a coffee mug in one hand and the other one in his jacket’s pockets. Sometimes he would get our dog and walk him around our neighborhood or snatch my lola’s walis-tingting and sweep our frontyard by himself. I would notice how his eyes discreetly scan our neighborhood, probably looking for something to judge with my lola. Then, how loud his voice can be while conversing with the store owners and how he yells to tell my grandma that he bought pandesal and pansit for our breakfast.
“He’s such a lively soul,” I thought. Seven decades of living and he’s still giving sunshine to everyone around him.
Then came the next day, as I finalize my look in front of my mirror, I stopped fixing the silver clips in my hair. I noticed… how tall my height reached, how my body turned to something close to a woman’s, how my once baby hair now frames my face that matured as time passed.
“Wow, I’ve… grown,” I whispered to myself. I suddenly started to tear up, lips shaking when I heard my own voice. Gone the tiny and pitchy one, replaced with a voice of a grown teen. I blamed my emotional capacity to feel deep and realize many things with a simple look because it made me a crybaby. I braced myself and wrapped up. It’s time to go to school.
I stood up once again in front of our house’s gate with my lolo doing his usual. I put my phone in my skirt’s pocket and watched him. I would ask random questions and he’ll answer it with such seriousness. And as we talk, my eyes lingered in his wrinkled face, next to his white and thin hair, then to his eyes that shows the sign of aging. I blinked many times just not to tear up in front of him. Something was in my throat at that very moment, realizing how our eyes meet at the same level — that I’m now as tall as him.
I no longer need to look up to see the expressions in his face, I no longer need to raise my hands so he can pick me up, nor stand on a chair to touch his once black hair.
Realizations hits different and hard in that one morning, as I sob my way to the terminal when my service couldn’t come. But it wasn’t the reason. It’s the realization that I’m growing old.
And so, as them — my lolo and lola. The ones who raised me.
We both have grown.
I still vividly remember the snippets of my childhood. He’s an early bird and he raised me to be an early chick. We both have our mornings spent together, where he will offer me the first taste to his 3-in-1 coffee, paired with either pandesal or pan de lemon. He then makes my black shoes shiny even though I would always come back home with a dirty one. I’m a chunky toddler, taller than the kids my age, so I get tired a lot. And whine a lot when I do. So, with a patient smile, my lolo would offer his back to me, offer me to rest on it, and he’ll take me to school as I enjoy riding his back. At afternoon, once he’s done with his work, he’ll come back with a plastic on his hand, filled with something I know that’s for me. And one time, he went home carrying something he got from his work — a silver hairclip he happily put in my short hair.
And I think that was one of the greatest moments where I felt so pretty. That I’m like the princesses I watched on our neighbor’s television. Yet indeed I am — I am my lolo’s princess.
“Be happy,” I said to myself. I tried to make myself see the brighter side, to set aside the emotions I felt. But I can’t.
Because I’m scared.
Actually, I’m not scared of the fact that I’m growing old, I’m scared… that the person who raised me, who stood as my father, the person I call as my Daddy, the person who always wakes up early just to boil hot water for my bath… is growing old.
And there will be a point in my life that I will look for his presence and warmth in every corner of the house where he nurtured me. But all I will find are the transparent images of our memories together, the knowing look we give each other as we team up against my lola, the tools he would always ask me to hand him while he does his works, his favorite hammer that he entrusted me to always put on his safety box, the pair of his favorite slippers, the Mickey Mouse mug where he shared me the first tastes of his morning coffees, his blanket that became my favorite and the silent echos of our shared laughter. I fear that fact the most.
I’m scared — terrified even, to lose my lolo. He’s the greatest pillar in the hall of my life, the one that supports the roof that keeps me from the burning heat, harsh winds, and angry rainstorms.
There was a time that I had to buy something outside at night, seconds later that I found him outside with me, just many meters away with his flashlight, acting like a guard doing some checkups in the vicinity. Then a specific time when I was disappointed in my quarterly grades that I got a high fever the same night, no one seems to notice but him. Amidst the cold and headache that I felt, I saw him patiently and gently putting a towel in my forehead when I slightly opened my eyes. Despite with my body big enough to carry heavy things, he never let me do so whenever he’s around. He was the one who killed the cockroach when I almost cried. The man who gave me the skin of his fried chicken. The one who fetched me whenever it’s late, the first one to open our gate in the middle of the night. He’s always been waiting for me to safely come home.
My lolo is my standard.
And if ever I will find the person who I will spend the rest of my life with, I want my dearest lolo to walk me down the aisle and hear him give warnings to my future partner. I want to watch him smile as he balances the feet of my child on one of his palms like he used to do to the young me.
And in every start of our day, I still want to be the first one to taste his morning coffees in his Mickey Mouse mug.
But those are my selfish wishes. A whine coming from someone who can’t fully embrace the cycle of life. But can you blame me? I’m just a girl who’s afraid to lose the first man who made me feel like a princess.
On the other side of my head, a part of me is still screaming my wishes to dear God. Please, give our grandparents more chance to enjoy their lives with their family. Let them watch and absorb how lively their offspring and the offsprings of their own turned out to be. Please provide them good health. Please give them the best things they deserve.
But again, these are my selfish wishes.
Because at the end of the day, our only choice is to cherish each moment with our grandparents. Let us not waste our time and make them feel our utmost love and respect for them. Let us show them and make them feel that their sacrifices are worth it.
And to my lolo, my “Daddy” — mahal na mahal po kita. Maraming maraming salamat po.
Let’s grow happily, Daddy.
