It was a warm, tranquil afternoon. The loud sound of church bells ringing filled my ears. My sister, boyfriend and I were all crammed together on a padded, dark green pew. I was laying my head on the firm shoulder of my boyfriend, as he had his arm tight around my waist trying to comfort me. “Manang, are you okay?” my younger sister whispered, trying not to disturb the mass. I curled my lips tightly into my mouth, and stroke my eyes against my soft, powder blue long sleeve cardigan. I glanced at her and didn’t respond. She reached out for my arm, and gently embraced it.
My eyes had been swollen red from crying for so long. I tried so hard to hold my tears back. I had a rough feeling in my neck as if there was a gigantic stone in my throat, and I was choking on it, trying to prevent tears from coming out. But somehow, they managed to force themselves out.
Just two days before, I found out my uncle and his son were dead. No one really had the story straight, but my family and family friends believed they committed suicide. I didn’t want to accept or believe it. The thought of it was just unbearable. It was as if my heart was shattered and broken into a million pieces, and the damage was unable to be repaired.
Sitting on the pew, I’d reminisce and think back about how he would always come to visit me and my family. Whenever he came out of his car, he had a huge contagious grin on his face that just made you want to smile. He wore dark shaded glasses, and had wrinkles the size of a single finger that covered every area on his face. His daily attire was an array of collared polo shirts tucked in dress pants, and dress shoes. Whenever we saw him, he would always greet my brother, sister and I with, “Hi, kids!”, then pat our shoulders or give us a hug, and smile.
I’d always remember him saying, “Do well in school, kids! Be good to your parents.” These were the words that replayed over and over again in my mind. The deaths of him and his son were my personal motivation to get good grades, and stop disobeying my parents. I related myself to someone who has lost a parent before, and I learned that you truly don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone.
As I was lost in the memory of my uncle, I woke up to the fact that I was in church. I glanced at the lit up altar with a giant crucifix of Jesus. Below that crucifix, was where the pastor was giving his sermon, and I listened closely. “We pray for the dead that they rest in God’s arms.” were what I remembered him saying.
I never could understand why a man who showed so much joy would ever want to die. In church that day, I’d pray for my uncle, hoping that he would have a place in heaven, in Jesus’ loving arms.
Listen to this song & it's lyrics. :)
