While I was eating my breakfast at 3 pm (that is right, I just woke up at 2 pm), a funeral procession passed by, and by the look of it, it was a funeral procession for a firefighter since the coffin was on a fire truck and accompanied by the relatives and men in firefighter uniforms. It then reminds me of a boy who lost his loving old grandfather. He was a picture of bravery during the funeral but broke down when the old man was finally laid to rest in the cemetery.
The old man is the strongest, smartest, and most gentle in the eyes of the boy. The boy loved him so much, but he didn’t say that out loud to him. The old man was a farmer; if he was not on the field, he played with his grandchildren. Sometimes, the boy accompanies the farmer on the field. The most favorite thing he did was to put the fertilizer after his grandfather just plowed the ground. Then, the farmer taught him how to “drive” the cart (or what in Ilocano is called “pasagad”) by directing the cow that pulls it. It was funny because the cow went the wrong way, and the cart went off track. This may be why the boy now does not like or is afraid of driving automobiles. The boy also listens to the stories of his grandfather. Most of them were set during the Japanese occupation.
Due to old age, the farmer’s body became weak and caused some complications. The boy didn’t bother to ask what was afflicting his grandfather. The farmer lay on his bed and cannot even tend to himself. All the boy wants is that his grandfather will become well. But that didn’t happen.
The farmer passed away. The boy received the news when he arrived at school. He just sat there wishing that it was not true. During the funeral, he did not cry. He did not want to feel sad. People who knew him didn’t ask why. He was there attending to the needs of the people who paid their respects to the farmer. He just sighed and still wished that it was not true.
They had to wear white on that day when his grandfather’s body was laid to rest in the cemetery. He was with his mom during the ceremony. He saw her cry a tear that time. Although she didn’t tell him, he knew she was mourning for her father. It rained as if Heaven also cried that day. The boy finally began to cry very hard. His mom held her very tight as if she was saying that it was OK to cry. He was angry for not telling his grandfather that he loved him. He wanted to run away, but his mom was not letting him go. For the first time, he was expressing his sorrow.
Days and weeks passed, and one by one, the people were removing their “panes,” an article of clothing usually in black to express the person’s mourning. The boy wore it the longest. He removed it after a few more weeks when he thought his mourning was over. He was wrong.
The boy was me.
Original address: http://www.frederickcalica.com/thoughtpatterns/2004/08/14/7/