(In this “November Special Series,” RVA’s writers share memories of loved ones they have lost — a celebration of their lives, recalled with a tinge of sadness and the hope that one day there will be a reunion…… in a place where there is no death, no suffering, and where God Himself will wipe away every tear. – Editor)
November is the month when we pause, remember, and pray for the souls of our dearly departed. It is a time when the veil between memory and longing feels thinner, and the hope of reunion promised by our faith becomes more deeply felt.
This year, I remember my grandfather, Illuminado V. Cua, whom we lovingly called Apang.
My memories of Apang begin with Sundays. I grew up in Sta. Maria, Bulacan, while he lived in Caloocan City. Every week, without fail, he rode his bicycle all the way from Caloocan to our home–roughly 25 to 30 kilometers–just to see us. As a little girl, I thought he was the strongest man in the world. I would wait by the door, listening for the sound of a bicycle approaching. When he finally appeared, sweaty but smiling, he always carried something for us: biscuits, crackers, candies, small toys, “pasalubong,” the sweet Filipino way of saying “I remembered you today.”
I did not realize it then, but that simple act was one of his greatest love languages. He did not come empty-handed, not once. And as children, we loved him eagerly for it, not the “things” he brought, but how consistently he showed up.
I remember, too, that when one of us cousins received an award in school, he would proudly accompany them on stage. For some reason I can’t quite recall, he never got to walk up the stage with me. But I tried, oh, I tried, to earn honors for him. I wanted to see him beside me, the strong grandfather who could bike across cities just to visit. That dream never happened, but my pride in him never faded.
When I reached college, I learned something new about him. Apang was half Chinese, and he could speak Mandarin. At a time when I had a Mandarin subject in school, he was the one who tutored me. It felt like discovering a secret treasure, this quiet, gentle man, who carried a world inside him that he rarely spoke about.
Christmases were magical because of him. His house in Caloocan had a store filled with all kinds of things, clothes, toys, random treasures, and every Christmas, we grandchildren were allowed to pick whatever we wanted. He would also bring us to fast-food restaurants and let us order anything. Those days felt like celebrations of joy and abundance, and I always associate them with the warmth of being surrounded by siblings and cousins.
As I grew older, we saw each other less often. Life happened, work, responsibilities, distance. Our encounters became mostly Christmas gatherings, quick exchanges of stories, greetings that lasted only a moment.
And then came the illness.
Apang developed cysts, around his neck and different parts of his body. It was painful to watch him weaken, to see someone whose strength defined my childhood slowly lose his mobility. He lived with us for a while, but he longed to return to Caloocan. His children wanted him in Bulacan, where he could be cared for more closely. He had a sweet tooth, maybe that’s why he always brought us sweets, and because I was already working, I made it a point to bring him his favorites; cakes, chocolates, Cloud 9 bars, and the inipit delicacy from Malolos. It felt like my turn to be the one bringing “pasalubong.”
The pandemic made everything harder. Hospital rules were strict, and instead of confining him, where he would have suffered through needles, dextrose, and isolation, we decided to care for him at home. It wasn’t easy. We didn’t have proper hospice equipment. My aunt and cousin took care of him during the day. At night, when my mother and I returned from work, we took over.
There were nights when he woke me up because he needed help sitting up to use the bathroom. He could no longer lift himself, so I had to carry him, and despite being a small woman, somehow I managed. Sometimes, after helping him, I would return to bed only to get up again a few hours later to prepare for work. Exhausted, sleep-deprived, but willing, because it was Apang.
Then one ordinary day, while I was at work, he slipped away.
When I arrived home, he was gone. The house was full of grief, my mother and her siblings crying, overwhelmed by the suddenness, the pain. In that moment, someone needed to be steady. So even though I was “just” a granddaughter, I took on the responsibility of arranging his funeral. His children were too heartbroken to make decisions, so I became the one who spoke to the funeral home, who coordinated the details, who made sure his final moments on earth were dignified.
It was strange, trying to be strong when my own heart was breaking. I wanted to cry, to grieve freely, but there was work to do. Only later, when everything was settled, did I finally feel the weight of his absence.
Looking back, I have no regrets.
Apang was not a perfect man. He had 11 children, and three of them were from a second wife. His life was complicated in ways only adults fully understand. But he supported his family in the ways he knew how. And with us, his grandchildren, he softened. He tried. He showed love in his own simple, faithful ways.
I hope, and I believe, that the love and care I gave him in his final years was enough to say thank you. Enough to honor the “pasalubong” he never failed to bring us. Enough to match the miles he pedaled every Sunday just to be with us. Enough to return the strength he once had, through the strength I lent him when he could no longer stand on his own.
Now, when I remember Apang, I imagine him whole again, no illness, no weakness, no pain. I imagine him in that place where Christ promises there is no suffering and where God will wipe away every tear. I imagine him smiling, perhaps even carrying a small bag of biscuits and candies the way he always did.
And I trust that someday, in God’s perfect time, I will see him again, the grandfather who biked across cities, who brought sweetness into my childhood, and who taught me that love, in its purest form, is simply showing up again and again.
Until then, I carry him in my heart, with gratitude, with tenderness, and with the quiet hope of eternal reunion.
