At dawn, Baba stirred me from sleep,
his voice a careful knock on my heart:
You must visit your Ina.
It trembled softly,
like clouds gathering behind the sun.
Guilt rose in my chest—
I had not bathed her as I vowed,
and seven days had passed
since my eyes last met hers.
Baba stepped out and no footsteps followed,
except my two little sisters came along.
I wished to go, but illness bound me still—
my body is weak, unsteady,
a fevered weight pressing me back.
So I stayed,
alone with the heaviness of myself.
By afternoon, Baba and Mama rushed again,
moving like wind pushed by unseen urgency.
Then my little brother came,
his words barely standing:
You are needed. Now.
His voice shook with an unspeakable truth
and I felt the world tilt slightly,
pulling me to my feet
despite the ache I carried.
Rain welcomed me on the way,
Sky pouring grief upon the earth,
as though heaven had long prepared for this sorrow.
A strange stillness held me
when I entered Ina’s room—
a silence louder than any cry.
She lay in peace, and for the first time,
her oxygen mask no longer bloomed with breath.
My tears broke free, a flood from deep within,
carving disbelief down my face.
Everything blurred into ache,
a broken puzzle of moments
I longed to rearrange.
I had always stayed close to her side,
yet fate chose this cruel timing,
making me the last to know…
“Salman, giya bes i kapatay.”
Her final whisper, fragile as ash,
drifted through the room,
a soft farewell rising itself into the quiet.
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Author’s Note: The title means a lot to me as it is the date of my Grandmother’s passing. I wrote this poem using the date as its title to always remember the exact day of her death.
Jehan B. Bimbas is a student at Mindanao State University-Main Campus, pursuing a Bachelor of Arts in English Language Studies. She is passionate about language learning and academic writing.