Going Home

#61: Remembering Lolo Fred

Michael Buble’s song, “Home” is addictive. I can listen to it over and over again for hours. “I wanna go home,” he sadly sings. I love the song, but I can’t relate to it. I am home. It just makes me wonder if this is already home for good. Knowing no other home but Manila either comforts or presents a hopeless prospect.

My parents were from a province north of the Philippines. They set out for Manila and carved for themselves a better life than their contemporaries back in Pangasinan had been able to. We used to go back to their “home” every quarter. I saw my lolo and lola around 4 times a year. Their house in the province was a place teeming with people, buzzing with activity and overflowing with material for good memories. When my lola died in 1999, the spirit of the house died with her. My lolo soon died a year or two after. That was the last time I set foot inside that house. There was no longer any reason for me to return.

That was until I received news last week that lolo Fred had died. He wasn’t a real grandparent. He’s not even a real relative. He had wandered into my grandparents’ house as an orphan from another town. He had offered his services as an all-around houseboy and had grown to be part of my maternal clan.

My first memory of him was back when I was around 3 years old. He was a strange sight. He had curly hair and his skin was dark as coal. Only his eyes and teeth could be seen emerging from the stairs behind our basement where his room was. He had a gold crown on one of his teeth which he was so proud of. I think at some point before his death, he either lost that tooth or had to sell it for a meal.

His name was Rafael and we only found that out reading the name on his coffin. I remember him bringing me to pre-school in his blue-green tricycle. The following year, another driver took his place. He had to go back to the province for one reason or another. I never asked. As a kid, it never mattered. I still don’t know why he left Manila to go back to Pangasinan. At this point, it matters no more.

My last memory of him was after we buried my grandfather. The last link to the new generation had passed away and for him and the rest of the people who were left in Urdaneta, there was no longer any need for any of the children to go back to that place and extend extra kindness to those their parents knew. I took his picture while he was standing by the jeep that had ferried people from the cemetery back to the house after the funeral.

“Hindi na kayo babalik dito, no?” I gave him a sad smile and proceeded to peer into my camera’s viewfinder. I knew the answer and wondered inside if the picture I was going to take of him was going to be the last. I would save it for his funeral, I told myself as I froze the image of his now-stringy white hair and leathery face. His eyes had lost not only their naughty glint; they had lost all glimmer of hope.

He died in the hospital. They said it was a heart attack that killed him. We knew he had drunk too much again and this time he drank one too many of the vile things I had always overheard my mom scolding him about. That’s what hopeless people do, right? They drown themselves in gin and look forward to death.

I went home to Pangasinan for his funeral and cried not because he had lived a full life but because he fell so short from it and I felt guilty about not being able to give him something – anything to hold on to in this life and in the next. He died with nary a shred of hope. And I live with that on my conscience. I went home. But far too late.