Every Sunday afternoon of my childhood until two Sundays ago, he visited us at home. As they say, Sundays are family days and he has been part of our regular Sunday afternoons.
It was last night during the wake that it completely dawned on me. We were his family. To all the wakes I’ve been to, I’ve sent my condolences to the grieving family. There was a different feeling last night as I was in the receiving end, hearing condolences from a few others.
I realized that I vaguely understood this thing they called "letting go" before. But now, I think I do. As my mom said, we'd be making this a happy farewell for him. So we should do what he would have wanted us to do. If there was anyone who would take this the hardest in my immediate family, I thought it would be my dad who lost a brother. But he remained strong in accepting the inevitable. My dad told me and my youngest sister last night, "Death unifies and bonds families."
I agree.
I've been experiencing different things and different emotions for the past four days -- processing separation, loss of a beloved, fatigue, fear, anxiety, and being sleepy during the wrong hours of the day. And then there's the want to feel light, to give help, and that incessant call of empathy for others who have more difficult experiences in life than I have.
Writing, I think, has been therapeutic for me. I know people who do just that. Write for self-therapy. I'm one of those people.
I cried last Saturday when I talked to my mom and sisters about the reality of the situation. I cried last Monday when I told Franco about it. I cried yesterday early morning when my mom told me the news of Tito's passing. I cried last night when I saw another cousin and my sister cry. I cried today trying to write. What can I say? I cry as easily as I laugh.
I write to let go. And I let go by remembering very well.
Everyone in our family has his/her own story to tell about Tito Noli. Stories of his childhood, stories of being a brother, stories of being an uncle, and basically stories of how he has been a part of our lives. Each story would be different and each one would be special.
He has given us a whole new meaning for the famous title, Noli Me Tangere. When roughly translated in English, it says "Touch Me Not". Tito Noli can no longer be touched but he can definitely be remembered.
As one of his many nieces, my memory of him would be those many Sunday visits with a "pasalubong" in tow and his words of sheer delight when saying, "Ang laki laki mo na. Dati ganito ka pa lang," gesturing at my preschool-age height. Take note, he would look sincerely amazed at how big we've all grown despite the fact that we see each other weekly.
Tito Noli was the kind of Tito who remembered little details that were important to your life and supported in whatever way he could. He waited for your answer after he’d ask, “kumusta na?” I remember all those about him plus the topics of Psychology he shared with me whenever he’d see me buried in my books. Life for him was simple and I admire him for that.
Looking back, it was the act of giving little gifts to others that was his joy. Without fail, when he was still able, he would bring us a pack of hopia, a box of custard cake, crabs from Pangasinan, or my sisters' favorite carioca during his weekly visits. Or when I was much younger, he would hand me coins just because he wanted to give and of course I’d be delighted to have them. Five or P10 was already a big deal then. As a person, he too had his own strangeness that not all would have accepted if they knew. And to those who have been with him everyday of his life, I admire their strength and compassion. As his family, we all love him just the same.
As we bid farewell to him, I’m sure he would want us to live our lives to the fullest, to the very brim, and be happy with whoever we become. He probably did just that in the best way he knew how during his lifetime. And if we ever get to face uncertainties or challenges along the way, we could live by the two very simple words that Tito Noli left us. They were his favorite words during those many happy moments and even to the most painful days of his life until his very last peaceful breath - "I'm okay.”
Written in the memory of
Gilberto "Noli" Diaz Jara
February 4, 1945 - November 4, 2008
