Every family has someone who has gone too soon—some unfortunately have someone who cannot be gone soon enough, but that is another matter entirely.
In my case, it was my uncle B—shorthand for Budjit, itself a loving moniker distantly derived from Benigno. Uncle B was the complete package of a person; he had a kind heart, a great sense of humor, and he was a killer in the kitchen.
Sadly, a few years ago, he perished in great pain as his organs shut down, and given that the majority of the family could not afford to fly across the ocean to be by his side in the United States, it was ultimately only my sister, from among us, who was able to be by his side.
I have painfully few memories of this man—this man who has never lost faith in me ever, even as I continued to stumble in my way through life. He lived a life of his own across the continents, in a place I could not ever afford to visit on my (descriptor) salary.
I must also admit that I am rather distant from my family, if left to my own devices, which is why I am entirely to blame for the lack of memories, which is now far too late to remedy.
But I do hold what memories are left very dearly. I recall when I first met him in person and he wore a “fancy” necklace made of soda can tabs from Coca-cola cans. I remember that he preferred “karinderia” food over the fancy restaurants his siblings would opt for whenever they visited us here in the Philippines. And I remember the honest joy he wore when he cooked for all of us a large course of grilled meat.
I remember how he tried not to worry us even as he was fighting severe pain from the terminal illness that had defied all medical care our relatives were able to scrounge up. I remember him sharing jokes about the local markets here in Baguio not knowing what a jalapeno is or what the various cuts of meat he was asking for were. I remember making copies of what little music he had in his phone for memory’s sake (the one that stuck with me is “Sailing” by Christopher Cross).
I remember a grim sense of finality looming over that last vacation, a silent resignation that this was indeed the last time we would see him face to face ever. I would never see him again, except in the videos and photos taken by my relatives, and the call past midnight of his final pained moments in this world, and I remember that despite all that, he had always trusted me to be better, to be a good man.
I do not know if he could see the future, where he pulled that infinite confidence in me, in us. I do not know from where he pulled that joie de vivre, nor where it has gone now that he has left. But I know a few things for certain—first, that I will forget him inevitably; second, that I must hold on to his memory for as long as I can; and third, that he saw something in me that I have never seen in myself—potential for growth, potential to be a good person, to be something more than I am.
But all I can do now is reminisce and keep those memories close, close to my heart, and hope that he was indeed a soothsayer in his faith in all of us; that there was something there we could not see past the sadness.
