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!”