Beloved mother

The sky outside is just turning light blue. It is early morning and already I am up, staring out my window just watching how light changes as the sun rises. Why am I up so early? I wonder at first. Then it dawns on me. Today is my mother’s funeral. Then the pieces fall together again until her full loveliness emerges.

Fe Arguelles Cruz was her maiden name. Then, when she was around 20, she married my father, Vladimir Gonzalez, who was killed by the Japanese on the eve of Manila’s Liberation, leaving her a young widow with a baby — me. Twenty years later she married Maxwell Donovan. In the bookmark I gave away to mark her passing, her name was written on one line — Fe Arguelles Cruz and underneath it Gonzalez Donovan.

She passed away on Dec. 6. She had just turned 88. I think a part of her waited for that birthday to leave me (who needs it badly) two of my lucky number — 8. My birthday is Aug. 8, 1944, a dominance of 8s. Last year on Aug. 8, 2008 I turned 64, which is 8x8. So 88 must be a magical number for me. It is her gift.

We had a Mass said by Father Tito Caluag on Monday, Dec. 7, very intimate, just for our family, my children who are here, my first cousins. We were fewer than 20 and we sat and talked convivially at the canteen of Heritage, sharing a simple meal of pancit and lumpia while we waited for her ashes. That event struck me as heralding a change. We were all friends, my first cousins and me, my children and me. This represented a welcome change in our family’s culture. The generation before us would not have done it this way. They would have had lunch together, perhaps, but everyone was in his or her own corner as they were constantly misunderstanding and constantly fighting, which led us to grow up separated by the previous generation’s hostility. But over the years as we grew older, we surmounted that. We reached out and made friends. There was no greater evidence of that than at my mother’s cremation.

So I would like to thank the people who were there, in the order that I saw them. First, Baby, my mother’s and my masseuse, who greeted me at the door. She was there to say goodbye to my mother. Then my son Gino and Faye. They were waiting in the canteen. Then came my youngest Sy-quia cousin, Pato, and his wife, Ingrid. They were followed by his older sister Mia, her husband Tato Faustmann, and their daughter, Sanya. Then my surrogate brother, Toto Cruz, came in followed by Father Caluag. Then Panjee, Dale, Sancho and Andres arrived. Then Nick Magsino, my oldest daughter Risa’s second son, who lives here. Finally, Pedro Syquia and his wife, Ollie. Later Micky, Mia’s other daughter joined us. These were the people who came to join my immediate family.

Panjee and Gino brought my mother down to the crematorium. Then at the canteen we pulled together four round tables and sat around them, talking, laughing. Laughter was one of the marks of my mother’s life. Before Alzheimer’s Disease came and overtook her, we laughed a lot together. If forced to break down our relationship into percentages, I would have to say 95 percent laughter, five percent tears. Mommy taught us all to laugh. That definitely was one of the gifts she gave us.

After that I brought home her ashes and set them on a table on my terrace, actually a stone’s throw away from my bed. I trimmed that with an angel representing her great-grandchildren, whom she all adored, a beautiful lamp created by one of my daughters, representing her grandchildren. On it and on her urn I perched butterflies representing me. She stayed with me until her memorial service yesterday, her ninth day. Then we had a memorial service with all of her friends and relatives and many of my friends present. All during the nine days my cousin Mia came to pray with me. Actually it was a beautiful ritual drawn up by my need for privacy and intimacy, my desire for only love to prevail. No gambling. No drinking. Just chatting, eating, laughing, praying. Nothing incompatible there.

This afternoon we will inter her at St. James Church in Alabang where she can be close to my son, Gino, who, like his sisters, adored her. I took him up on his offer because in the end he will have to take care of her — and me — when I go. Alabang is closer to Gino and Panjee.

Let me take this occasion to thank all who went to the memorial service yesterday. I know I should have spent more time with you but I’m sorry I couldn’t because I had to spread my presence around. Thank you very much for coming and saying goodbye to my lovely mother.