“The law of conservation of energy states that energy can neither be created nor destroyed, only transformed from one form to another.”
My late grandparents’ house has survived countless typhoons. The basement has become unrecognizable from the floods that have left it waterlogged, and at night it grows cold in its emptiness. The wooden floorboards creak with each step, and all around the house is the nostalgic smell of wood I’ve grown to associate with their home. My grandparents’ balcony sill is filled with plants, where mosquitoes thrive to spite my existence. The metal grills display elaborate, winding shapes, and every time I look at it, I remember a vivid memory from typhoon Ondoy in 2009, when I was just four years old:
Above us the dark and stormy sky, and all around us the rain relentlessly battering the house. The lower floor and basement flooded and offering no hope of escape. Us on the balcony as the wind whipped around us. The teeth-shatteringly cold rain against our faces. My uncle holding a pair of pliers as he broke the metal grills. Snap, snap, snap. A body-shaped hole for us to escape through.
Time has changed the house, just as time has changed us all.
When I agreed to reside in my grandparents’ home during my November stay in the Philippines, I did not know then that I would grieve so deeply, until after a late afternoon nap.
It was quiet in the neighborhood, with the occasional dogs barking here and there, and lone conversations drifting through the humid air. The light was off, just how I liked it. Sparse light entered the room through the balcony screen, encasing the room in the sun’s departing glow. The perpetually whirring fan provided a comforting background noise, leaving the blue curtains to billow softly.
When I awoke, it was calm and quiet. I rose slowly, and as I looked around the room, the thought that had been stuck at the back of my mind for a few days suddenly came to the forefront.
It hit me: I have been sleeping in my late grandparents’ bedroom, moving in the space they once occupied. I was existing in the space they once lived in, but all the while I felt like I did not know them at all.
I broke down and cried then, my grief hitting me too many years too late. Quiet sobs wracked my body, and try as I might, I could not quell the deep sadness rising within me. And how could I? I have been sleeping in their bed, in their bedroom, in the house they raised my mother and her siblings in, where they offered their home with open arms to those who needed it, and all I could feel was the endless distance between us.
I grieved, I was ruined. Broken in two.
When my grandparents died, I was too young. Having been born outside the Philippines, the most I would see my grandparents over the years was during summer vacations. I was four when my lolo died, and twelve when my lola passed. I have photographs of us together, but no concrete memories of them.
Most of what I know about them is from others. My lolo loved to jog, and he was a part of running clubs. As for my lola, she was a devout Catholic. She would pray the rosary every day and went to Sunday mass every week. She adored K-dramas before they became mainstream, CDs of Korean shows stacked atop the living room coffee table when she was still alive. I never got to try her cooking, but my ate told me her Adobo is really good. Growing up, my cousins and I would affectionately call them “lolo guwapo” and “lola taba.”
And their kindness.
How can I forget their kindness and generosity? It’s a trait of theirs many of my relatives recount fondly.
Whenever I would go to the Philippines and stay with relatives in their home, something they would all talk about in common was my grandparents’ kindness. In the past, when they needed a place to stay, they would live with my mother and her siblings for a while in their home, and my grandparents would take care of them with open arms.
Yes, their love is subject to the Law of Conservation of Energy.
Though my lolo and lola are gone, their acts of kindness live on. The love and kindness they had shown to my relatives stayed with them, and they were in turn sharing and passing it on to me. In a way, I felt like I was still being loved and cared for by my grandparents through others’ actions. Their love transformed from one form to another, reaching me even after all the years they have been gone. Their love is still with me, and it always will be.
For me, I grieve not just their passing, but also the time we could have had together.
I can only remember and love my grandparents as I do know them. I have photo albums and second-hand stories. I have borrowed memories from others and the kindness others show me, born out of the kindness my grandparents handed them. My grandparents are no longer with us, but they live on. I have their decades-old house and what I would say is the best product of their love and lives: my mother and her siblings, who in turn have shaped me.
Although I grieve, no amount of regret or sadness will bring them back, and although death is inevitable, this fact does nothing to remove the sadness and pain that comes with it. Still, the living live on, and we remember those who have gone. No matter how painful death is, it is our duty to remember those who have passed.
My lolo and lola have passed, but they live on and I remember them. I write about them with the hopes of immortalizing them and paying respect to their beautiful lives and the kindness they had shown to everyone. This could not have been written without them.
Thank you, lolo and lola. I love you.
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