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When I was growing up I was scared of making Lolo mad. I remember one time I was removing my nail polish and he put his hand over his nose and started coughing saying that he now had a headache.
I put the cap on the alcohol container.
There was one time when we were driving in the car and I was kicking the back of the seat in front of me. Or maybe it was my brother who was doing the kicking. His hand struck back to catch the foot and in a low voice he said “I told you to stop.”
We put our feet down and let them dangle, still too short to touch the floor.
Now, he is old, we are older too.
With time, his demeanor was softened. I don’t know what changed it but maybe he was able to let go of some of the pain that he was storing up. Maybe he realized that giving his pain to other people, didn’t make it disappear but multiplied it instead.
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Lolo’s mind is changing, his memories slipping into each other. Sometimes he forgets what he has been doing, or what he will do next. He is still there though, and stories are rising to the surface that I have never heard before. Stories from his childhood in the Philippines. Stories of his time in the Navy during the Vietnam War. Yes, I will listen Lolo, please tell me that one again. And the moments where he bursts into a song in Tagalog are sweet na sweet as he would say.
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When our family was together in one living room last Christmas, we were discussing the opportunity my Lola and Lolo had to go to the Philippines in February. One of my Lolo’s cousins was selling the property his father and my Lolo’s father had grown up in. Since Gil was well off as was the rest of his family, he wanted to split a large portion of the money between my Lolo’s brothers and sisters kids.
This gathering of the family in one place to talk about deep subjects was good, it didn’t usually happen. My aunt interjected to bring up the future and what my Lola and Lolo were going to do. She questioned what they were going to do as they continue to get older. What money will they live on, do they have a plan, what about when they can’t walk the stairs in their house anymore. A part of this discussion makes sense. Those are things that should be talked through. But I thought we were a FilAm (Filipino American) family. Of course Lola and Lolo will come move in with family members when they are ready or decide they cannot live on their own anymore. I wonder why in that moment, I feel more Filipina then my hoppa aunt.
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It is interesting to reconcile that the same person that I think of as Lolo, someone who gave me three typewriters from his room of fun knick knacks because he remembered I wanted to type on one and forgot that he had already given me two. The Lolo that whenever he sees my film camera he looks at it and says “This looks familiar, I wonder if this is mine” I tell his that it is not but he is the one who inspired my love for photography. He is the legacy of creativity from his father and has gifted so much creativity into his next generations. I think of the Lolo that I can sit next to and listen to sing, or tell the same stories, or get lost in thoughts, or nap. The same Lolo who I think of is the same person who left deep wounds in my aunt and uncles that I don’t see that they have worked through. Will it be too late?