Once upon an island

May 30, my parents’ wedding anniversary, a date on the calendar we still celebrate, seven years after Tatay has passed on. In my mind—in my family’s mind—Tatay’s memory is alive. We speak about him, in random circumstances. Over dinner, for example. And my faith tells me: he is alive, in the fellowship of saints in heaven, laughing and singing and feasting and supremely enjoying the presence of God. I imagine him looking down, saying, “Dali na kamo diri. Kadugay sa inyo.”

But the last days of May found us in a plane, from General Santos, with a brief stopover to Manila that would take us to Busuanga. If you’d spotted us at NAIA, you would have noticed Manong and me, holding on to our mother in laughter, provoking her with random comments that got her riled up; or, more correctly, she holding on to us, complaining about her eyeglasses that still give her trouble with depth perception. She is adorable. She is getting older. We make most of our time to take her around while she still can. I told her we can get her on a wheelchair, if the time comes when she wouldn’t be able to walk—a suggestion that riled her up and, therefore, cracked us up. If her friends were around, they’d tell us, amusingly, “Ginakulit niyo na naman si Nanay niyo.”

The plane was small. We descended on the island on a cloudy day. The turbulence didn’t bother Nanay. She said the plane reminded her of the flights she took when she had trained for dentistry in Cebu. During her time, the airport in Surallah was operational. Now the closest airport from Marbel is in GenSan, which is just as well: just an hour’s drive from home. But add that hour of land travel from home (Koroandal) to the Gensan airport, and the actual plane ride from Mindanao to Manila (1 hour, 45 minutes), and Manila to Busuanga (50 minutes), and the ride from Busuanga to the port (30 minutes), followed by the boat ride to the resort island (30 minutes), plus factor in the waiting times—and that would mean an entire day of traveling. We realize we live far away, in the cul-de-sac region of the country, right at the bottom of the archipelago. Our geography separates us from major national issues. Nobody hardly cares what happens in Metro Manila, except when the airports are not functioning, or when you have children studying there.

At the resort, where I write this now, we exist as we do in Koronadal. I told Nanay, “We brought Koronadal to Coron!” Nanay laughed on the opposite bed, joining the playful sounds of the fruit bats outside, relishing the cold of the airconditioned quarter, the thick curtains obscuring the calm sea. After her cancer treatment many years ago, she couldn’t stand the heat. She hides under the cover of darkness during the day and emerges out of her room at night. Which is why you will not see photos of her in the sea. Sun exposure feels like punishment for her. So Manong and I are left on our own, kayaking and swimming. A hospital staff asked if we’d be interested in snorkeling. We were, we said, but we wouldn’t see anything beneath. Manong has been egging me to get Lasik. Soon, I told him, soon. 

But I realize it’s this kind of vacation—the stationary, devoid-of-any-activity kind of getaway—that she loves. If Tatay were alive, he’d be the opposite: dragging his sons from sleep in the wee hours of the morning to observe the sunrise, saying good morning to the fishermen, making sure we hit the waters by dawn, and telling us, “Come, come, don’t be afraid,” as we wade far from the shore, in deeper waters. But Tatay would be there, our safety, his sturdy shoulders we can grab on to. 

 

I don't want to end with a somber tone but with a cheerful, grateful fact—that my parents are alive, only that each exists on opposite sides of eternity. Now let me go drag Nanay out of the room for some halo-halo. Tatay will have to wait, when we meet again.