Papa Utolo
On the day Papa Utolo died, our home was overcome by a strong sense of quietness. It was so quiet that one could hear the stalks of the orange trees outside our bungalow scratch against the unplastered fence.

Someone, I am not sure who, called our landline to inform my mom. She went to her room and faced the wall. At that time, she still slept in my father’s room. On the wall she faced, was an altar with several mini statues of Jesus and Mary and a picture each of Mary and Saint Jose Maria. A little above the altar was a picture of my paternal grandma.

I am not sure how long she lay there, but it was very long. I remember asking my sister why mom had been in her room for so long and she telling me that our grandpa had died. Why is she so sad though? I asked. It would take me some time to realize that grandpa to me, meant father to her. I imagined how deep her pain was and somehow I managed to promise myself not to become too attached to grandma because I did not want to have to be overcome by such pain.

Somehow I made it through life thinking this way — maybe I won’t get hurt if I do not get attached. As time went by, this became my subconscious MO. I was excited every time I saw her, I enjoyed her jokes, offered myself for her to throw shades at me, but I never let myself become too attached.

For two weeks now, her health has deteriorated. This is one more way 2020 has tried to test my limits. I talked to my mom today and you can tell she is really worried. Just like over a decade ago, she is once again in that position where a parent is ill.

Has my attempt over the years to not become attached worked? I sincerely doubt. For two weeks in my subconscious, I have squashed several times, thoughts that begin with “what if….”
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['Memoir']