When We Lose Someone Who’ll Never Return

Tuesday, October 7, 2014

It’s the kind of loss not even close to the one who got away kind. It’s the type that once gone, can never return. It’s the one that always comes with regret.

It’s one of the days I remember clearly, like every detail is still so vivid like it only happened seconds ago. It was October 3rd, Thursday, and I just had a day at home from a 3-day retreat in Batangas. I dragged myself to school, just as usual, for my Philosophical Anthropology class and more 3-hour classes afterwards. I hated Thursdays, especially that semester in college.

But that was the lightest of all Thursdays. It was strange, but serene. I even had thoughts I never crossed my mind to have had. Like I would always recall, I was excited for that day to be over: To get rid of my anxiety in Broadcast Journalism class and, oddly, to have a talk with my grandmother I haven’t been in good terms with for a long time.

Anj, my cousin, called me on the phone right after I got out of class. And then at that moment, I already knew. I already knew what she was going to tell me. But it didn’t hit me right away. I just walked under the warm lights in my university, my soul out of my body. I entered the car with the driver waiting for me, and I knew I wasn’t going home.

I was staring out the window the entire trip until I alighted to the memorial, and entered the huge room full of luminescence. It didn’t seem to have a sad atmosphere at all. Until I saw the gold coffin lying right in front of me.

My entire vision blurred—I no longer knew who were the people were there and how many they were, if there was anyone at all. All I saw was the auric casket, which I walked towards as soon as I had it in sight. Each step was a lot difficult from the previous one. Each step was a struggle as a million tears shed right before my eyes. And before I knew it, I was looking at my grandmother lying beautifully inside the glass, and I was sobbing endlessly not caring who watched me that night.

For the first time, I vehemently cried that I no longer knew what I feel. All I had in mind was “sorry,” because I knew she wouldn’t hear anymore.

It’s been a year, but the pain is still fresh in my heart like it only happened yesterday. Like I still yearn for someone I lost, someone who will never return.

She could have been 87 today, but she’s celebrating it Somewhere better. And I am more than relieved she’s spending an eternity with Him now. Happy birthday, Lola!