My mother used to tell me, as a child
how selfless my grandmother was—
that she would give her children food
she was about to put in her mouth
just so they wouldn’t starve.
She never counted what she had given,
believing God saw every good deed
and blessed those who gave without asking in return.
I was two when the first coffin entered our home,
glad I didn’t witness her suffering.
Mama Rosie, the first body claimed,
traveling her veins slowly,
wrecking every part of her
until her entire body could no longer fight.
She was the youngest among seven.
Yet it never halted her
from taking on roles too big for her age.
She fetched and sent us to school,
checked our knees for bruises,
lulled us to sleep until our cries softened.
I was fifteen when I watched over her in the ICU,
unresisting the tube pressed to her mouth,
Every breath is a painful attempt to stay alive.
Ate Lablab, the second life taken,
as it knew no age, it ran in the blood,
remembers every cell,
waiting for the right time to strike.
I feared him growing up.
His voice commanded attention,
as if punishing those who disobeyed.
He was their eldest, a seaman
who never continued sailing.
But beneath that stern demeanor
hid a kindness few could name.
He let me devour everything in his fridge,
until my stomach could hold no more.
I was sixteen when he was rushed to the hospital,
his left foot rotten, bacteria spreading like wildfire.
I watched over him day after day,
old enough not to throw up
while eating inside a ward of bodies
busy with their own survival.
Kuya Archie, the third to fall
to the poison hidden in sweetness
unhurriedly ravaging every organ
that came its way.
She had a twin sister—
the second and third among seven.
Maybe that’s why my mother
gave birth to twins, too—
our blood remembering what it once held.
She made sure we learned our lessons—
a hit from a belt or hanger
each time we misbehaved.
It may sound cruel,
but it was her way of caring.
I was twenty when her body,
once tireless in feeding others,
could no longer serve even herself.
Ate Nene, the fourth soul captured,
as it patiently waited,
revealing itself only to disrupt
the body’s function.
I had grown used to the alcohol scent,
the chaos, the maze of white corridors.
It comforted me thinking
that the final resting place wasn’t lonely—
it’s noisy, somehow alive.
I grew up unafraid of coffins.
I thought it was normal,
how one by one, our family
disappeared into silence.
I began to wonder—
who would it call next?
Mark Lhoyd D. Tampad, born and raised in Davao City, is still learning the craft of poetry and hopes to grow into a better poet. He is currently studying BA English major in Creative Writing at UP Mindanao.
