I miss going to Baler. I wanted to sit all day on the beachfront. I would enjoy listening to the whispers of the wind, the cold air that embraced every evening. My cousins and I would play with the sand and frolic our way through the crashing water by the shore. I remember grabbing a surfboard, the soft version, and riding the morning waves. I hadn’t done much practice, but through trial and error—and a lot of balancing with my legs—I learned to skedaddle back to shore with that cushioned surfboard. It prevented a lot of injuries on my end since I kept bumping into it. When I finally arrived on shore, head held high, my tito told me, “Now use the real one,” offering me his surfboard.
Back then, I laughed at his quick remark. And he laughed even louder. Now, I think I know why using the real one mattered more.
He passed away recently, and I never got the chance to show him again how much I improved. He was mostly quiet. I was fortunate to have had the chance to talk about anything under the sun with him. Whenever I slept over at my cousins’ house, he was the first person I saw awake, even before the sun had gleamed through the window. He would fix up something exquisite near the counter with tablea, milk, and sugar. He would mix it all up with a batirol and serve me his signature refreshment.
It was these little things that are now precious to me.
When his body became ashes in an urn and his smile remained still in a photograph, I couldn’t help but think that he was, in some ways, a gift here on earth to many people. The laughter and presence of different strangers made his funeral a lively event. It’s as if the Holy Spirit gave him another banquet, not that there should have been a lot of silence and cries, but the people that knew him continued his warmth in a few nights. He was gentle on many of our minds and hearts.
I thought gratitude was simple. One can imagine a “thank you” or a bow. It could even be a cute reply to a friend, family member, or crush. But there is more to gratitude than gestures.
I am reminded of Spider-Man: Brand New Day in my own interpretation of the ending (spoilers ahead). Just one quick trigger from the Punisher almost killed Peter with a Sniper rifle bullet, ramming through his body. The reaction of Jon Bernthal was priceless. A cold faced killer such as the Punisher became a big baby, crying over someone who reminded him so much of his son (if he were still alive). When Peter wakes up bruised and tired, the Punisher was there waiting for him (in fact sleeping). After a few exchanges, Peter laughs at the Punisher’s apology for shooting him. Then, they both end up laughing.
It is a small and almost ridiculous moment. Someone shot Spider-Man, nearly killed him, and yet the scene ends with laughter. But perhaps that is precisely what makes the moment meaningful. Laughter becomes a way of saying, “I am still here. You are still here. We can move forward.”
These moments remind me that laughter can be a form of gratitude. Roger Scruton elaborates on laughter, containing “the ability to accept our all-too human inadequacies: by laughing we may attract the community of sentiment.”1 I was never the one who laughed. In fact, I frown a lot. My family would keep telling me to smile more often. In my adulting years, I’ve begun trying to just smirk. Authentically, it’s never natural. When I pondered on Scruton’s quote, especially in relation to the passing of my tito, I considered his laughter something that I should continue with others. I think the real challenge is to find joy despite moments where it’s just hard and frustrating to move on.
Perhaps this is why I keep thinking about my tito and his surfboard.
The “real” surfboard means nothing if it isn’t used. Even if it is used badly, it still serves a purpose. If it’s left on the corner of the room to collect dust with more items that pile around it, then that is even worse, letting it die in its own space, turning to mere junk.
Perhaps that is the strange thing about gratitude. We often recognize its object only after the moment has already passed. While we are experiencing something, we think it is ordinary because we have not yet experienced its absence. We do not realize that a person has become another home in our rugged and often chaotic lives until one day we notice that a family lunch has become quieter than usual even if he was the quiet one.
That is what I feel when I think about his tablea.
I can probably make hot chocolate myself. I have the tablea that he gave me as a gift during Christmas. I even have the milk and the sugar to complete his recipe. I could even learn how to use a batirol properly online. But I know it would not be the same.
The ingredients were never the whole recipe.
He was.
“Grief must be a reflection of love.”2 This was what Peterson wrote reflecting on his own trials and tribulations of his family and the stories of his patients that influenced his book 12 More Rules for Life. Despite the sadness, some part of me has learned to acknowledge that it’s okay to cry sometimes. The opposite of grief is forgetfulness. I don’t want to forget him. If every instance there’s something that triggers a memory again of seeing him, I would just let it fall again. May I cry inside or smile better on the outside, part of life is carrying these memories with meaning. Take for example one of our bayanis, Marcello H. Del Pillar. While he was situated in Barcelona, he saw the daughter of one of his fellow Filipino propagandists, and this triggered his nostalgia, homesickness for his family. Del Pillar got the chance to return to the Philippines because he died of tuberculosis. He passed away from his homeland. Above the clouds maybe, there lies a home we all seek, one where we would be reunited with something much more transcendent than we have below here in the now.
I find it strange that in our darkest moments we find a glimmer of light that still shines. I imagine my tito surfing somewhere beyond our atmosphere. Using the real surfboard matters now more than before. It must be love persisting despite all the hardships life might throw at us. Memories after all become ingrained in objects that we once took for granted. They remain while may not even get the chance to say a proper goodbye. Going back to that beachfront, perhaps that memory shall remain gentle on my mind.
Scruton, Roger. 2017. On Human Nature. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.
Peterson, Jordan B. 2021. Beyond Order: 12 More Rules for Life. New York: Portfolio.
