Ivy
I can’t remember when I started having (mababaw na luha) especially when watching movies. There are times, these days, when I find myself cracking up on an article I was reading on the internet. I used to be not like this. My friends could attest to that. After seeing me during my sister’s funeral, and my friend Karen’s, where I didn’t or couldn’t shed a single tear. I also couldn’t fathom why.
Perhaps that was the very reason. Perhaps I’ve been keeping my emotions for a long time now. For when the need for me to be strong, and not show any sign of weakness, for crying is weakness.
I lost my sister when she was only 13. We parted in bad terms. We quarreled the night before because she joined the Good Friday procession up until the last station without telling me, leaving me waiting for her for maybe half an hour before we could walk home. The next day, she went to the beach along with my mother, aunt and cousins and my mother’s friends. It was a trip that was supposed to be for the adults, but these adults had little children, so the tagged along. I was already in the my teens, so I wasn’t invited. But before they left, I remember seeing her get off the car and running across the road to tell me I could go along. They were going to the beach. Of course, I wanted to go. But then pride kept me from saying yes. And instead, I said I had to do the laundry, and already made plans with friends in the afternoon. Whenever guilt strikes me, I think of that moment when she run to tell me I could go. She talked to me, that could mean she already forgot about our quarrel that night. Or napilitan lang. Our quarrels would always go about who would talk first.
My aunt would also remind me that I even owed her money. Indeed. I owed her probably less than a hundred pesos. Between the two of us, she was the more thrifty and I remembered borrowing from her probably for a school project, and I failed to pay her back.
We had a lot of great memories, but somehow, these bad ones always surface first whenever I think of her. Memories such as throwing a rice at her, and one time a leche flan, and I wasn’t even content, I had to throw her clothes in the mud and stomp at them. Like a real villain sister in a TV drama. I am the big sister, I should’ve been more understanding, I should’ve been more forgiving. I never knew if she knew how much I loved her and cared for her. At night, when she’d choose to sleep in our room (I used to sleep with my auntie in the house next to ours), when she’s deep in sleep, I’d usually just watch her, stroke her hair, and kiss her. We do not usually show our affections, and when she began attending elementary school, she stopped giving in to our “pa-kiss” requests, like many kids in our place. Our family is not affectionate. when she was buried, we couldn’t even kiss her one final time because her coffin had to be sealed.
She drowned that day in the beach, along with two of my cousins (13 and 11), and another distant relative (he was also 13). Her body was found three days later in the Pacific ocean by some fishermen. I didn’t know then how to feel when they have already found her. On one part of my brain, I was hoping maybe she was just swept away in another part of the beach, and maybe she was saved. I was kind of wishing we never find her so I can still make myself believe that maybe she was swept away in an island, lost her memories, and was being cared of by other people. I’ve seen too many dramas. But finding her body was probably what was best for all. It ended our hopes, but it meant closure.
My mother fell into depression after what happened. She loved my sister dearly. Parents would never admit to having favorites, but I saw how my parents treated her differently. They adored her. They gave in to her pleas. They almost always gave her what she wants. Maybe it was also because among us siblings, she was the malambing one. On weekends, she’d cling to my father’s bicycle whenever he was going to the rice fields or to the market. She’d tag along with my market whenever she goes. She hugs them. She always kids around with them. Things I never did because I was probably too self-absorbed in playing the family’s ‘smart’ child. While my mother also took special care of my older brother, she showed another color of love for her bunso.
My mother often cried. And somehow I thought maybe it could’ve been better if we never found my sister’s remains so we could believe that she’s well and alive somewhere. I don’t know. I didn’t know how to deal with my mother then, I didn’t even know it was already a depression she was in. We didn’t seek any medical help, and just dismissed it as a deep grievance.
I remember crying, when I get to the beach where they drowned. And my mother was crying hysterically while trying to tell me what happened. “She’s gone, she’s gone. Your little sister is gone,” she said in Ibanag. “The sea took them away…” I was stunned at first. This isn’t the scene that I was expecting to see. When I heard the about what happened, I was hoping they tell me to go to a hospital where my sister and the cousins are recovering. But what I heard from the phone wasn’t a lie. They were gone. But that thought has to sink in yet for few more days, or probably weeks. I cried out of pity for my mother. I could see how deep in pain she was. At one point she even ran toward the sea. She was that close to losing her mind. She was ready to turn her back on everything and everyone else, just so she could be with my sister. And that was when I knew I had to be strong. My mother already gave up. At first my brother seemed fine, but later he’d break down, too. My father remained calm and gathered. At least in front of us.
Later on, my friends would tell me how scared they were to even talk to me because I still managed to go to school during the time they were still searching for the bodies. What else do I do then? I kept myself busy and proceeded on with my life so as not to have time to think about what was really happening. They said I was indeed strong because they never saw me in tears even after what happened. If only they knew how bad I wanted to cry. I just wanted to get it all out. But it never did.
Years later, while attending school far from home, there were nights when I’d remember my sister, and I find myself crying, out of missing her, and probably out of guilt. If only I knew she was only given a short life, I would’ve been a better sister. The tears streaming down my face now are still out of guilt, out of guilt for not being a better sister to her.
Perhaps that was the very reason. Perhaps I’ve been keeping my emotions for a long time now. For when the need for me to be strong, and not show any sign of weakness, for crying is weakness.
I lost my sister when she was only 13. We parted in bad terms. We quarreled the night before because she joined the Good Friday procession up until the last station without telling me, leaving me waiting for her for maybe half an hour before we could walk home. The next day, she went to the beach along with my mother, aunt and cousins and my mother’s friends. It was a trip that was supposed to be for the adults, but these adults had little children, so the tagged along. I was already in the my teens, so I wasn’t invited. But before they left, I remember seeing her get off the car and running across the road to tell me I could go along. They were going to the beach. Of course, I wanted to go. But then pride kept me from saying yes. And instead, I said I had to do the laundry, and already made plans with friends in the afternoon. Whenever guilt strikes me, I think of that moment when she run to tell me I could go. She talked to me, that could mean she already forgot about our quarrel that night. Or napilitan lang. Our quarrels would always go about who would talk first.
My aunt would also remind me that I even owed her money. Indeed. I owed her probably less than a hundred pesos. Between the two of us, she was the more thrifty and I remembered borrowing from her probably for a school project, and I failed to pay her back.
We had a lot of great memories, but somehow, these bad ones always surface first whenever I think of her. Memories such as throwing a rice at her, and one time a leche flan, and I wasn’t even content, I had to throw her clothes in the mud and stomp at them. Like a real villain sister in a TV drama. I am the big sister, I should’ve been more understanding, I should’ve been more forgiving. I never knew if she knew how much I loved her and cared for her. At night, when she’d choose to sleep in our room (I used to sleep with my auntie in the house next to ours), when she’s deep in sleep, I’d usually just watch her, stroke her hair, and kiss her. We do not usually show our affections, and when she began attending elementary school, she stopped giving in to our “pa-kiss” requests, like many kids in our place. Our family is not affectionate. when she was buried, we couldn’t even kiss her one final time because her coffin had to be sealed.
She drowned that day in the beach, along with two of my cousins (13 and 11), and another distant relative (he was also 13). Her body was found three days later in the Pacific ocean by some fishermen. I didn’t know then how to feel when they have already found her. On one part of my brain, I was hoping maybe she was just swept away in another part of the beach, and maybe she was saved. I was kind of wishing we never find her so I can still make myself believe that maybe she was swept away in an island, lost her memories, and was being cared of by other people. I’ve seen too many dramas. But finding her body was probably what was best for all. It ended our hopes, but it meant closure.
My mother fell into depression after what happened. She loved my sister dearly. Parents would never admit to having favorites, but I saw how my parents treated her differently. They adored her. They gave in to her pleas. They almost always gave her what she wants. Maybe it was also because among us siblings, she was the malambing one. On weekends, she’d cling to my father’s bicycle whenever he was going to the rice fields or to the market. She’d tag along with my market whenever she goes. She hugs them. She always kids around with them. Things I never did because I was probably too self-absorbed in playing the family’s ‘smart’ child. While my mother also took special care of my older brother, she showed another color of love for her bunso.
My mother often cried. And somehow I thought maybe it could’ve been better if we never found my sister’s remains so we could believe that she’s well and alive somewhere. I don’t know. I didn’t know how to deal with my mother then, I didn’t even know it was already a depression she was in. We didn’t seek any medical help, and just dismissed it as a deep grievance.
I remember crying, when I get to the beach where they drowned. And my mother was crying hysterically while trying to tell me what happened. “She’s gone, she’s gone. Your little sister is gone,” she said in Ibanag. “The sea took them away…” I was stunned at first. This isn’t the scene that I was expecting to see. When I heard the about what happened, I was hoping they tell me to go to a hospital where my sister and the cousins are recovering. But what I heard from the phone wasn’t a lie. They were gone. But that thought has to sink in yet for few more days, or probably weeks. I cried out of pity for my mother. I could see how deep in pain she was. At one point she even ran toward the sea. She was that close to losing her mind. She was ready to turn her back on everything and everyone else, just so she could be with my sister. And that was when I knew I had to be strong. My mother already gave up. At first my brother seemed fine, but later he’d break down, too. My father remained calm and gathered. At least in front of us.
Later on, my friends would tell me how scared they were to even talk to me because I still managed to go to school during the time they were still searching for the bodies. What else do I do then? I kept myself busy and proceeded on with my life so as not to have time to think about what was really happening. They said I was indeed strong because they never saw me in tears even after what happened. If only they knew how bad I wanted to cry. I just wanted to get it all out. But it never did.
Years later, while attending school far from home, there were nights when I’d remember my sister, and I find myself crying, out of missing her, and probably out of guilt. If only I knew she was only given a short life, I would’ve been a better sister. The tears streaming down my face now are still out of guilt, out of guilt for not being a better sister to her.
