Candida’s portrait

A prominent photograph in our home in Gulod is a portrait of my late mother, Candida. She was wearing a short dress with big, bright pink flowers. She was standing amidst a garden in Taipei, her left hand on her hip, suggesting her mood of the day: celebratory, carefree and confident. Mirrored in her lipistik-smudged smile was a glorious day. It was June 6, 2019 — her 75th birthday.

That portrait of her moves around the house. Sometimes it’s in the living room, standing on the tiled floor, side by side with a vase of flowers. A few times, it’s on the dining table, during Noche Buena, or during a birthday celebration of a family member. At times it’s on top of the bookshelf that faces the back door. When we enter the back door, her smile is the first thing to greet us. On Christmas Day and New Year’s Day, our traditional family picture-taking under the himbaba-o tree will not be complete without us carrying her portrait, as well as my father’s photo.

Sometimes Candida’s portrait travels with us, to Sonya’s Garden by the Sea in Nasugbu, to celebrate her 79th birth anniversary, her first birthday after she was gone.

In commemoration of her 80th birthday last year, Nanay’s portrait was also present in a private space at Café Ilang-ilang in Manila Hotel. When Gabby, her apo, graduated cum laude at the University of Santo Tomas, Gabby carried the portrait of her grandmother from the graduation venue up to the picture-taking at the UST grounds.

Twice a year, on Nov. 1 and May 21, her death anniversary, we bring the portrait to the cemetery. Last Wednesday, on the occasion of Nanay’s second birthday in heaven, we brought her picture with us to the cemetery. Bittersweet memories.

Sometimes her portrait is in my room when I don’t feel well. Oh, how I miss Candida the most when I am under the weather. When she was alive, my mother had that “superpower” of healing by simply being by my side. She told me many times, no matter what one’s age is, one will always look for one’s mother. No wonder on her dying days, she was always mentioning the name of her mother Concepcion. Nanay died at 78.

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Her portrait will always be special to me because it reminds me of the day when I saw the happiest smile on my mother’s face. It was her first trip to a foreign land and to her, it was as if she had travelled the whole world.

My mother’s first trip abroad was a tale of joy and gratitude — hers and mine. My heart will forever remember how her happiness was over the moon on the day she made her first vacation overseas in Taiwan, on her 75th birthday.

On days when I am not well, I replay her shrieking happiness in my mind and I feel comforted by the memory. Our trip to Taiwan will always remain the benchmark of my joy. And in times when my body is frail or my mind is a web of discomfort and uncertainty, I always go back to that four-night, five-day trip to Taiwan and I feel fine. It is because at the center of that trip is my love for my mother.

She was overjoyed long before she walked to her seat in the plane. She was the first to board and she thought at first we were the only passengers. We had not reached Taipei yet but Cabdida was already very happy. She kept on saying “Thank you! Thank you!” She even expressed her gratitude to Daniel, the funny guy who pushed her wheelchair inside NAIA, and to Alyssa Su, the kind Eva Air FA who brought her to her seat. She told her as she was retouching her lipistik, “My first time abroad.” Ahh, I was overjoyed, too!

My brothers at home were also celebrating her joy as she called them from her plane seat before take off. She described her joy to my brothers. And when it was still permitted to make one last call before departure, she called her best friends, Ate Oma and Inang Deleng. “Ere, hindi pa lumilipad ang eroplano,” she told them. “Ang sayako! Ang saya-saya ko!”

And when we were already cruising an altitude of 33,000 feet above sea level, she brought out from her black bag a small plastic container of rice and adobo. “Dapat pala nagbaon akong itlog na pula kahit tatlong piraso lang,” she said. She was diabetic. It was bad for her to go hungry.

I remember the figure “33,000 feet above sea level” because my mother was drawn to it and said, “Ano? 33,000 feet. Dapat tayaan ko sa STL (Small Town Lottery). Pompyang tres. Tatama ‘yan.” Pompyang means a bet that is a repetition of the same number. There was more than pompyang of happiness that moment in the plane between mother and son.

In Taiwan, she was at home. Because it was a bit warm in Taipei when we arrived, Candida decided to be comfortable in discovering the city at night in her violet Silva’s duster and red Wataru espadrilles. She was comfortable as she mumbled a little prayer at the temple in Songshan (“Bakit iba ang itsura ng santo nila dito?”) or tried the street food at Raohe Night Market (“Masarap. Parang isaw na tinda sa kapitbahay natin.”).

When I complimented her for her attire, she quipped quickly: “At least, ako lang ang naka-duster sa buong Taiwan.” She said it with pride like she was a Miss Universe contestant displaying her national costume in a parade. My mother, that moment, proved that “you could take the girl out of Gulod but you could not take Gulod out of the girl.” Candida was her own happy woman. I loved — love — her to bits!

It is entirely another story when she applied for a passport for that Taiwan trip. At the Department of Foreign Affairs in Pasay City, she befriended the officer taking her passport photo. The officer showed her the first shot but Candida did not approve of it. So she reached to the bottom of her bag for her lipistik and with a compact mirror tinted her lips red. She looked straight at the camera. Her eyes faintly smiling. She was happy with her passport photo.

In Taipei, when she woke up for her 75th birthday with Taipei 101 just a shouting distance from her hotel bed, she was picture of bliss. She enjoyed the sights and sounds of Taiwan — from lemon/guava picking in an orchard to drinking whisky at Cavalan, from enjoying traditional Formosa music to ogling works of contemporary Taiwanese artists, from sipping local green tea to having “fish spa.”

“More trips to come, Mang,” I told her. I brought her to Seoul the year after where she bared again her happiest soul.

“More trips to come, Mang,” I told her again.

When she died of a heart-related ailment, I was still more than ready and willing to give her moments and memories that would make her happy. There was nothing that my mother wanted that I would not give.

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To this day, Candida remains the greatest love of my life.

She is my light, my life. So much of the warmth, brightness, tenderness I spread to the world is actually from the warmth, brightness, tenderness of her own heart. Two years after her passing, she remains to me the brightest light, the most loved woman of my life.

In moments when I am broken or infirm, the memories of her love stich me up.

Now, I only have my favorite portrait of her; and from its simple frame emanates love — never ending love. That’s enough to make me fine.

For your new beginnings, e-mail me at [email protected]. I’m also on Twitter @bum_tenorio and Instagram @bumtenorio. Have a blessed weekend.