Lynette, 70

The weekly newsletter. Maybe that's the better way to frame my posts in this blog—a weekly newsletter. I got the idea from Craig Mod who writes Ridgeline. I recently subscribed to it. Writing needs some exercise. If I languish far too long without posting, my writing muscles might atrophy. 

So here goes.

Tita Net (Lynette P. Catedral), my father's sister, died last week. She was 70. She had a severe case of dementia and died because of complications that resulted from it. Her body was cremated: a simple, clean affair that involved close family and friends. 

She has left behind, on this side of eternity, her daughter, Charisse, who had the appearance of taking everything as-a-matter-of-factly, powering through the rituals of obtaining death certificates and ensuring that the caterers were paid and well-wishers properly entertained—the practical, logistical demands of funerals. Charisse's voice broke down when she gave the final eulogy, reading her speech from her phone. We all listened with rapture and sadness. To be left behind, after all, is to feel alone. 

Tita Net has also left behind her only living sister, Tita Beb, the youngest of the Catedrals, and the aunt who resembles my youngest brother Sean in temperament. They're both scared of air travel, prone to worrying, and have a shared facial expression of lifting their eyebrows and protruding their eyes when surprised or angry.

Almost everyone who spoke in the eulogy alluded to Tita Net's return to Lord, like a prodigal daughter finding her way back to her Father's arms. I remembered that, despite the slow erosion of memory, the blank stares, and the profound sense of disorientation with regards to person, place, and time, Tita Net would immediately bow her head and pray the most personal address to God when we told her, "Mag-pray na ta bi." She clasped her hands tightly, or held on to the pair of hands nearest hers, and she would speak to God normally, like a person whose brain had no vascular infarcts. God was, in her final moments, her anchor, the very solid rock she stood on, despite her condition. She would gradually forget us, despite generous prodding ("Sino ako? Bata ako ni Dodoy. Si Lance Isidore. . . ") but she would know the next lines to the hymns.

How precious that memory is. We had been gradually losing her, but my faith tells me there will be a grand reunion of God's prodigal children soon. For now, we remember her and will miss her dearly.