Kaluy-i kami.
Panalipdi kami.
Tabangi kami.
I silently rushed toward my grandmother’s casket, still wearing my yellow uniform and khaki pants from Labangal National High School. I asked my sister for a piece of paper, then knelt beside the casket, watching the manghadji recite the novena prayers. Today is the final night of my grandmother’s wake. Among all my cousins, I was the only one who knew how to respond to the prayers, and so I was assigned this role. The others were outside; they were washing plates, serving food the all-nighters, and brewing coffee for those who would stay until dawn.
Mommy Rosalina, my mother’s eldest sister, was visibly upset that I had arrived late. I didn’t get the chance to explain that I had been making arrangements for an event I could no longer attend because of Lola’s untimely death. Someone had to take my place at the Peer Facilitators’ seminar. But I said nothing. I refused to speak.
My mother sat beside me and whispered, “Asa man ka gikan, Loy? Dugay lagi kaayo ka.”
I didn’t answer her. Instead, I responded to the manghadji, “Sr. San Vicente, kaluy-i kami!”
I already knew how this novena would end; it is through rhythm, repetition, and surrender. I would say the words kaluy-i kami, panalipdi kami, og tabangi kami over and over, calling out to every saint we could name, as many as we could remember. We were asking for mercy, for help, and for protection. And when the final Amen was said, the prayer ended. I stood with the imprint of sand pressed into my knees.
Afterward, our family gathered just outside the house where Lola Tacion lay. My mother was with her siblings Mommy Rosalina, Uncles Boboy and Darwin, and the twin sisters, Auntie Melot and Nanay Melen. The twins discussed the plans for tomorrow’s burial. Many of our relatives from Cotabato City and nearby places had made time to come home to General Santos just to pay their respects to Lola Tacion. They had been sleeping in assigned houses, with each sibling hosting a few.
To be honest, I didn’t know most of them. I’d just take their hands and do mano or mag-bless, because that’s what Mom taught us. One of my cousins joked, “Reunion na pud ta tungod kay naay namatay.” It was said half-smiling, but the pain lingered behind the teeth. We had all gathered not for a celebration, but because someone we loved had left. Again.
The manghadji and his companion set up a speaker and table near the casket. Perhaps a final night deserved a final say from her siblings, her children, and us, her grandchildren. I was surprised they even arranged such a program. This is something I neither planned nor expected. Soon, the manghadji called everyone to gather and pray.
Chairs lent by the barangay were arranged in rows. Everyone took their place. Those of us in front were mostly the grandchildren who listened closely. The ones at the back whispered among themselves, some still engrossed in card games: tong-its, chikicha, piat-piat, and unggoy-unggoy.
The first to speak was Uncle Boboy, the eldest son of Lola Tacion and Lolo Paking. His words were direct and unembellished, honest to the bone. Just as I had expected. There was no need for dramatics. His sincerity filled the room. Then, Mommy Rosalina stepped forward. Her voice carried the weight of years. Years of choices, sacrifices, and unspoken burdens. She spoke of gratitude for their mother, of the years spent weathering hardship. She recounted their journey from Cotabato City to General Santos, how they built a life from scratch, one piece at a time. Beneath her emotion was a quiet, dignified assertion of everything she had done to keep the family together. I wasn’t surprised. Mom had often told me how her eldest sister took on more than her share, how she bore the role of second mother long before she had to.
Then came the twins.
Nanay Melen stayed in her seat, the microphone untouched. Her hands trembled slightly in her lap. She lowered her gaze, as if speaking would unravel everything she had tried to hold in. I caught her eyes for a moment. They were red-rimmed, on the verge of tears. I understood. Of all my mother’s siblings, she had the tenderest heart. Words would have broken her, for sure.
It was Auntie Melot, her twin sister, who rose to speak on her behalf. Her voice, though soft, carried strength. There was no pretense in her tone. No anger, no bitterness, only a humble grace. She spoke with clarity, grounded in love, regret and gratitude. She confessed that she hadn’t always been the easiest child, and hadn’t always made the right choices. But there was no attempt to explain. In that moment, I knew she let her true self speak.
And the room listened.
Their youngest brother, Darwin, shared his piece next. He spoke about the cause of our grandmother’s death. He told the crowd that one day, Lola Tacion’s stomach had worsened. It bloated like a balloon after her last confinement. She confessed to us, too late, that aside from drinking white flower oil when the pain became unbearable, she had undergone a procedure called tudlik from a quack doctor named Henry. The procedure involved opening a small bit of skin near the stomach to remove fat or this so-called “blockages” meant to cleanse the body. They didn’t blame the quack doctor directly, but we all understood.
Then my mother stood before the family. Her voice shook as she spoke after her siblings had shared their memories. She talked about how she and Manding Tacion, the way she calls her mother, had endured every hardship together just like Mommy Rosalina. It had long been said that she was the favorite child, but that day, as she wiped her tears, it no longer mattered. I never blinked as I watched her. It was the only time I had seen my mother cry.
She told us about living in Purok Islam, in front of GenSan Public Market, with Lola Tacion. I thought she would talk about being the only one among the siblings to finish college. But she didn’t.
Instead, she spoke of mornings spent helping Lola sell dayok, a strong fermented fish paste made from intestines, sealed in reused glass bottles of lapad. In the afternoons, they grilled barbecue. She remembers how the scent of chicken skewers curled into the sea breeze. How smoke clung to their skin, their hair, their clothes. That while the city pulsed around them, how their hands moved fast. How they turned sticks, fanning flames, exchanging coins for meat. And how the honking of tricycles, the chatter of market-goers, the endless cries of vendors filled the air.
My mother continued, sharing how she had to transfer schools many times, took a job at a canning factory, worked for both Purefoods and Nautica, and pursued her college degree at Dela Veda College in Cotabato City.
She ended her speech with words that silenced the night:
“Dili nako pasagdan ang bulad, Mang. Hangtod sa makaya, ako magpadayon sa pagpamulad. Maong dako akong pasalamat sa imo, Mang.”
And just like that, I closed my eyes and began to pray again. This time, not because I had to, but because I needed to.
Kaluy-i kami.
Panalipdi kami.
Tabangi kami.
I wiped my tears and waited for my turn to speak.
Jhomarie Maglangit Sevilla, a resident of Purok Matinabangon, Labangal, General Santos City, is a BA Literary and Cultural Studies (BALCS) student at Mindanao State University–General Santos. He is serving his second term as President of Maratabat: MSU-GSC Writers Guild and is a Creative Nonfiction fellow of the 2025 Davao Writers Workshop.