My Grandmother’s Love
/I grew up without memories of my maternal grandparents. They both died when I was still very young, and I don't have a single memory that I can truly call my own about them.
But my grandparents on my father's side were different. I remember them vividly, especially my lola.
There was a time when my lola became the primary caregiver of my youngest brother because both of my parents were working. My mama was a teacher, while my papa was self-employed as the cook and owner of our little karinderya (food stall).
Our karinderya
Because of that, I spent a lot of time with my lola. Together with her, I also became the designated watcher of my youngest brother. My lola was a really nice person, someone I deeply admired.
An old digital camera photo of me and my younger siblings
She was also the one who taught me how to wash my own clothes. She was the kind of woman who seemed capable of doing every task around the house. As a child, I simply thought that was normal. As an adult, I now realize how much work she carried every day.
Some of my favorite memories are the smallest ones. We would sit outside our house while she patiently searched through my hair for lice, teaching me how to find them with my own hands. Strange as it sounds, it remains one of the most precious memories of my childhood. Love often hides in the ordinary.
During my birthdays, she would secretly hand me money as if she were giving me something illegal. It was such a classic Filipino lola thing to do.
She also had an unmistakable sense of style. I don't remember ever seeing her in a plain T-shirt. She was always dressed in her floral terno (traditional dress) wearing different colors depending on the day, with one of her many decorative comb clips carefully tucked into her hair. As a child, I simply thought she dressed beautifully. Now I realize she carried herself with elegance that needed no special occasion.
My lola (right) wearing her colorful top
When my youngest brother was still in my mother's womb, we stayed for a while at my grandparents' house while Mama was preparing to give birth. Every visit there made us feel deeply loved.
Every time we visited, my lola would immediately tell my lolo to bring out the foam mattress so we could comfortably lie down. It was one of those little things that made us feel loved without her ever saying it.
My parents also made it a point to visit them often. I always thought it was because my papa was my lolo's favorite among all of his children.
Sometimes my lola would stay overnight in our house and sleep in our room. She was a devout Catholic who would always pray the rosary before sleeping, still wearing her floral terno.
My younger sister, and my lola at the back wearing colorful top.
Years later, when I came out, my lola never questioned me. She never made me feel different. She never needed grand speeches to show acceptance.
I never felt judged by her. I felt accepted for the person that I am. Some relatives would always tell me that I resembled her. Now that I think about it, I believe they were right.
Then came the day we lost her. It was during our barangay fiesta.
The house was full of people eating, drinking and celebrating. My papa was busy preparing food for everyone. My lola loved cooking, so she would often go near him just to talk while he worked. Every now and then, she would also check on my lolo, who struggled with alcoholism.
As the night went on, everyone became tired. My lolo had already passed out because he was drunk, while my papa had fallen asleep after all the preparations.
My lola asked one of my cousins for a glass of water, but the water never came. Perhaps everyone else had become caught up in the celebration. Then she called for me.
She told me she was feeling pain in her chest and asked me to call my mother.
Mama and my great-aunt immediately decided to bring her to the hospital. They boarded a jeepney together, hoping they would make it in time.
My lola took her last breath somewhere around the second bridge. She passed away before they reached the hospital.
Not long after, my cousin returned to our house crying, telling us that my lola was gone.
The hardest part was finding the words to tell my lolo when he finally woke up.
That night, I cried until I fell asleep. I remember listening to music while crying. I even woke up my brother, who had also passed out because he was drunk, just to tell him that our lola had died.
The days that followed were filled with sorrow. For the first time in my life, I saw my father cry. My father was never someone who openly showed emotion, but losing his mother broke something inside him. He told me not to cry, perhaps because he wanted to be strong for all of us. But neither of us could stop.
My father, always wearing a hat, with my younger brothers
Looking back now, I realize my lola taught me many things. She taught me that being vulnerable is never something to be ashamed of. I remember how she openly cried during the funeral of her own brother. She taught me that loving deeply also means grieving deeply.
She taught me to be sentimental. She taught me to be kind.
I think that is what Filipino grandmothers leave behind. Even when they have very little, they always find something to give.
I think that is what Filipino grandmothers leave behind. Even when they have very little, they always find something to give. Whether it is food, birthday money secretly slipped into our hands, prayers before bedtime, or simply making sure there is a mattress waiting for us whenever we visit.
To lose your grandmother is to carry a hole that never really closes.
I may not have always expressed my affection and love for my lola while she was still alive. But she never failed to express hers. And for that, I will always be grateful.
I will never forget you, Lola.
Phoebe Gwynn Francisco is a psychometrician and writer based in Lapu-Lapu City, Cebu. Her essays on mental health, early adulthood, and love have appeared in the Philippine Daily Inquirer and other outlets.
