Goodbye, Brother Andrew

I must have arrived at around five. Beribboned flowers are crowding each other along the hall and up the stairs, leading the way to the second floor chapel where you are lying in state. You are flanked by two striking portraits. One of you maybe as secretary of Education and the other as a little boy sitting beside your mother. I like the latter much better, so infinitely charming. I called your mother Lola Charing every time my mother and I came to visit. I was a little girl then. I remember the first time I saw you, you were young, big and fat.

There are not too many people in the chapel when I come in. I walk up to your bier to have a look at you. My, Brother Andrew Gonzalez, you are beautifully dead and really lying in state dressed in your white frock with a big cross on your chest, but something is definitely missing. It’s your personality, your soul, your life, the difference between this boxed version and the Brother Andrew I knew, the one who was fun, jocular, talking and laughing all the time, the one who enjoyed eating all the time. That’s the part of you, the most important part, that has gone on, has crossed over. Suddenly I hear your voice, again complaining about one of your nieces who could not even heat water. "Well, she probably feels she doesn’t want to compete with her brother," I ventured and you said, "You don’t understand. To us, food is a cult!" Then both of us burst out laughing.

I will miss you. I remember when I was working at a soft drink company. Someone who claimed to be a reporter of the newspaper you were president of called demanding to meet me at the newspaper’s library. He had found a bottle with sugar mold and was threatening our company with blackmail. I called you to find out if he really worked for that newspaper. You checked and called me back. No, he had been fired. "Tell him to go sit on a tack," you said and once again we laughed robustly. By this time you were no longer young and fat. My memories of you, except for one, always involve a lot of laughter. Maybe that’s because we’re related. Brother Andrew’s father and my grandfather are brothers. He is my uncle, my father’s first cousin.

Remember the time of Lorena Bobbit? You invited my mother and me to dinner at Café Ysabel with Brother Benedict and a few other people. I can’t remember who else. I’ve had a stroke, did you know? Anyway, you brought up Lorena Bobbit and I said that the one lesson she taught was that it wasn’t enough to cut it off, one had to chop it up. All the men at the table, including you and Brother Benedict looked down to make sure your napkins were securely on your laps. Another round of rambunctious laughter. What do we do now? Brother Benedict passed away a few years back. You are gone. My mother has Alzheimer’s. How do we all get together for laughter again?

Once I called you for advice. I had a career then, was doing very well so my cousins who were not like me came to my office and asked for money. I would give but they would keep coming back for more. It was driving me crazy. You said, "Create a budget. Ask yourself: how much money am I willing to give? And when you have used up your budget, do not give any more. Tell them you’re done." I was profoundly grateful for that. I turned around and did that until they both died and my problem was solved. They were both Gonzalez men. Gonzalezes die young. We don’t even hit 70. These two died in their 50s.

I ran into David de Padua, a cousin of mine in the same way you are an uncle of mine. His grandfather is Virgilio, one of your father’s brothers. Also Di Gonzalez, granddaughter of Bienvenido, another of your father’s brothers, accompanying her parents. Of course, there was Ompong Gonzalez, your nephew. Best of all I ran into Mike Zosa, one of my original young (now not too young) male friends. I think I have known Mike for almost 50 years, no, maybe 46 years. We used to party together. He’s still working. We still have fun talking to each other. I also saw Ed Angara, Sonia Roco, and Maribel Ongpin, who left before I could say hi. Liz Reyes, who was once my writing student, a writer who used to head up De La Salle Publishing. On my way in, Raffy Rufino, and on my way out Tony Ortigas. Then Tony Concepcion on his way up to see you. My, Brother Andrew, your funeral is a social event! I can hear you laughing.

So many people, so many old friends. I could not say goodbye to you. So let me say goodbye to you now. Thank you for all the lunches and dinners you hosted. Thank you for your friendship, advice and laughter. Thank you profoundly for giving all of us so much of yourself. We will miss you but we’ll see you again soon.

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