Saying goodbye.
Letting go.
Things I am actually not very good at despite the cool fabric of detachment I drape around my body everyday.
The moment we found out about Lola Kit's illness, we were worried of course, but more than anything, optimistic. My Grandmother was one of the most resilient people I know and for as long as I have known her, the strongest. Surely she'd overcome a measly little illness. Surely she'd persevere and have nothing to show for save for a few more laugh lines, loving additions to her already beautifully lined face.
But End Stage Renal Failure is a killer.
The most cunning of all thieves.
And it took Lola Kit away from us.
From me.
I haven't really said goodbye. I couldn't bear doing so, seeing her frail, ill and still fighting. My heart ached for her and for a time before her death, I could actually feel a heaviness inside from the weight of it. I still do.
So I don't think I will, not anytime soon. Perhaps someday my Grandmother's passing and her memory will heal inside me. Gradually, I will come to believe that she found the assurance of God's presence when she left. I will someday, through faith, through choice.
Can't say I'm looking forward to it. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad she was freed of her suffering. She fought the good fight but it hurts to know the finality of her absence.
There will be no more talks of the supernatural until the wee hours of the morning.
There will be no more cutting across the dry Barok river bed to get to San Miguel and eventually Roxas proper where an afternoon will be spent foraging in her favorite ukay-ukay stop.
There will be no more spontaneous Holy Week visits to Barok. Or surprise visits to Iloilo.
I guess what I'm trying to say is, I miss you a lot, Lola Kit.
