Lola’s vroom-vroom

Via email, Facebook, or in forums, parents ask me how they could raise a brighter child. Although I do not have a biological child of my own, I have helped raise several children – my nephew Luigi, whose mother was working abroad and whose father died early; as well as Mica, whom my parents adopted and since their passing, I have considered as my own daughter. One day soon, I have to help raise the child of my partner, a nine-year-old boy who has the brains, good looks and charm of his father.

When Luigi was still an infant, I would play classical music in cassette tapes to soothe him, and make him fall asleep. I also taught him the alphabet through music, as in the ABC song. One of the memorable moments of my surrogate parenthood was watching him take his entrance exams for Grade One. I think one of the questions was filling in the missing letters of the alphabet. I saw him silently mouthing the lyrics of the ABC song, and his eyes lighted up – eureka! – when his song reached the line of the missing alphabet.

Luigi would later take up Music at the Conservatory of the University of Santo Tomas, and now lives in Los Angeles, to follow his dream of working for musical theater.

Mika was raised mostly by my father, for I had transferred by then to a condominium I was renting in front of Ateneo de Manila University, where I taught fulltime for more than 20 years. My father taught her what he had taught me: Arithmetic done the old way (without calculators), memorizing elocution pieces complete with hand gestures, inscribing the alphabet on lined paper in cursive and beautiful handwriting.

I tried to raise these kids the way I wanted to be raised – through conversation and dialogue, arriving at that golden moment of consensus, whether we are talking about where to study, what course to take, or –heaven forbid because what will my lola (grandmother) say? – to leave Roman Catholicism behind and become a Christian.

My lola also partly raised me, since my father worked as a soldier by day and took up Law at night, and my mother taught music in school. In her memory I wrote this story for children, and for those with the hearts of children. The story is called “Lola’s Vroom, Vroom.”

My lola brought me to her hometown in Oas, Albay every summer, when I was still a kid. We would take the train overnight. The train swayed from side to side. My Lola slept, but I would just rest my head against her fat arms. I would eat hardboiled eggs while looking at the lit houses sweeping past the window. The sound of the train was like the beating of the heart.

My lola walked with me to church every dawn of December. In the chilly air, we would attend the Misa de Gallo. I would cling to her hand while we walked in the dark. I was never afraid of the dark as long as she was with me. Her hand was warm.

My lola taught us to cook taro leaves in coconut milk. Dried fish and shrimp would be mixed in that lake of coconut milk. And then the dried taro leaves and stems would follow. Everything would simmer. Her face would almost disappear from the steam rising from the coconut milk.

These are the scenes I saw in my mind’s eyes, while taking the bus bringing me home to my lola. Earlier, I had received a text message. “Please go home,” it said, “something happened to lola.”

I alighted in front of the subdivision. I walked to our home. When we reached our house, it was quiet.

The past month my lola had been sick. She was 90 years old. One morning we found her on the floor. Black marks like maps had formed on her skin.

We lifted her up back to her bed.

“What happened, lola?” I asked.

“I was just trying to stand up . . . when I fell,” she said in a weak voice.

We brought her to the hospital. The doctor said her brittle bones had been broken. He said she must have already fallen several times before we saw her.

“It is like the branches of a tree finally breaking,” the doctor had said.

She refused a wheelchair. She just lay in bed at home.

“It is painful,” she once told me. “How I wish . . . your lolo were here.”

I would just run my hands over her forehead. Her arms that used to be fat now had loose skin. She was already thin.

After I opened the gate of our house, I wanted to rush in her room. But as I was entering the house, I almost bumped into Luigi. He was my two-year-old nephew. We had been teaching him how to walk.

But now he could not only walk; he was even running out to meet me, startling the morning around him. I lifted him and kissed him on the cheek.

“Where is lola?” I asked him.

“Wowa?” he said. Then he turned his head in the direction of the house.

I put Luigi down and held his hand. We walked into the house. It was then when I saw Auntie Millet.

“Your lola has just died,” she said. As simple as that. Red veins seemed to form in her eyes. She looked as if she had come from so far away.

A lump of stone formed in my throat. Tears stung my eyes.

I sat beside the bed of Lola. I pressed my hand on her forehead, the way she did it to me when I was young. Her hair had turned completely white, like a veil.

During the funeral wake, our family and friends came. From near and far, they gathered to pay respects to lola. She was in a coffin surrounded by so many lighted bulbs.

When Luigi came, he immediately ran to me and asked: “Vrroom, vroom?” his eyes were looking at the casket surrounded by brilliant lights.

“Wowa?” he asked.

“Yes,” I answered. “Vroom. Vroom. Lola is about to go ahead of us.”

“Leaving . . . us?”” he asked, his eyes narrowing.

“Yes, but we will see her again,” I assured him. “One day we will.”

And then I embraced Luigi and lifted him. I brought him to his lola so he could look at her and say his final good-bye.

Comments can be sent to [email protected]. “Remoto Control” goes on air from Monday to Friday at Radyo 5, 92.3 FM, 9-10 p.m. with livestream at www.news5.com.ph