3048

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"That era has passed. Nothing that belonged to it exists any more. He remembers those vanished years. As though looking through a dusty window pane, the past is something he could see, but not touch. And everything he sees is blurred and indistinct."

-- from In the Mood for Love

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I don't know exactly why but ever since my grandmother survived pneumonia last year, I had begun to unintentionally avoid visiting her regularly. We live in the same house so it shouldn't have taken the least bit of effort to go into her room and make my presence felt. Me, one of her favorite grandchildren from the time my family moved in in 1989.

I love my grandma so much, at one point I even felt more love for her than for my own mother. She had always been there for me and took care of me whenever my parents would go to Baguio on periodic occasions. She took care of the house, spoiled us with food and material comforts, money. She had been the strength of the whole household and the whole clan. I really love her, but lately, I couldn't seem to reciprocate the same concern, the same responsibility. Perhaps it's because I hate seeing her in distress, I hate seeing her 97-year old body in a worse condition now than it was a few years back. Maybe I fear losing her and reopening the envelopment of emotions I've kept since the last time I saw her in pain.

She was admitted to the hospital last Saturday because she had experienced difficulty in breathing. It was early afternoon and I was busy preparing for 2 gatherings that evening. I prioritized these over accompanying her ride to the hospital. I didn't even visit her in the room to greet her or make my presence felt before I went on my way. I kept my guilt for the rest of the night.

My sister and I visited her last Sunday. 3048. We were wearing gas masks so as not to transfer any communicable illnesses from outside. She was sitting on her bed, the saline solution attached to her right hand, all okay. She looked healthy and happy.

My sister and I sat on opposite sides of her, clutching her hands and gently caressing her wrinkled sinews. She asked me why I hadn't visited the last 3 days. I told her I had been at work, which was true, but it undermined the fact that I hadn't seen her in more than a week. I tucked her thin, light brown hair behind her ear, the way I always do, and I told her how pretty she is. She smiled and told me how much she loves me. She gave me a warm kiss, the kind where she inhales deeply, the sound of which was as if she were smelling fresh flowers. She's the only person I know who kisses like that.

I told her I love her too.

And for a moment there, I felt like I was the same 11-year old boy who'd accompany her going up the stairs, who'd lie down in her bed while she'd tell the story about the monkey and the turtle, who'd receive honors in school and make her proud; the little boy she fought the bully for when she found ballpen marks all over his arms.

For a moment there, I felt as if I had been forgiven.

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