A Father Remembers

Today, as a tradition in our country, most Filipinos will trek to the cemetery to visit the graves of their loved ones.  Many of them may already be there since the break of dawn. 

I will not be one of them.

My reasons are neither the traffic nor the hassle to stay under the heat of the sun in a memorial park packed with the whole of humanity. 

When my newly born son, Adriano, was buried by my husband, a couple of relatives, and a pastor-friend at the cemetery, while I stayed in my hospital bed nursing my grief, I knew that my little boy would never be lying in dirt six feet under the ground, he would always be in my heart. 

I went to visit his grave a few times, albeit perfunctorily, with my husband and three other sons as a rite of remembering.  But those were just a part of another lovely family outing. 

I kept the attitude when years later, my dad then my mom were laid to rest in my hometown in a plot they bought years earlier. On November 1, every year, my siblings trek to that plot while I stay home in Manila pondering the grace I continue to receive through memories of them, in black and white.

The only way I know how to deal with death is write about it.

All of Tony's family also passed away one after the other (dad, mom, brother and sister) and again, I chose to swim in memories by writing about them—in my books, blog, journal, and diary.    

There are many other loved ones—close aunts, uncles, friends, kith and kin—to whom I said good-bye as they were interred in their graves, but never visited again.

Tony is of a different mind.  He has his own way of remembering.

Every year, sensing perhaps that I do not share his thoughts, goes alone to visit the tomb of our son—two days before November 1.  I request him to take a shot of the tomb, for reasons I can't explain. He humors me. While there, he also takes photos of our close friends' tombs.

 

Not one of these photos ever shows a flower or a candle—traditional gifts to the departed.  So in a way, he is different from others, too.

Once a year, on a different date, Tony also makes time to visit his family—all four of them—in one crypt in a Chinese Temple.  He tells me he does paypay,  a common Chinese practice of lighting a few sticks of incense and swaying them like a fan with both hands.  He doesn't understand what it means, but he does it anyway.  

People differ in how they view this day. While many feel the need to go to the cemetery, some stay home.   

Two quotes come to me now as I imagine all the people in all cemeteries nationwide honoring their dead. One is the poem, “Do not stand at my grave and cry,” attributed to several authors.  Here are the first two and last two lines:

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there; I do not sleep.

Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die.

And the other was coincidentally quoted by my friend, Cherry, on her Facebook wall.  It was what a mother, who lay dying, said to her son, St. Augustine: "Lay this body anywhere, let not the care for it trouble you at all. This only I ask, that you will remember me at the Lord’s altar, wherever you be.”

My thoughts of my own son today: I do not need to go to your graveside to remember, you're in my middle and there I visit you all the time.

But Tony, despite his busy schedule, travels the far distance to visit our Adrian's grave. Perhaps it's a father thing, a father's way of grieving—and healing.

(Photo by the graveyard maintenance man)