Thirteen years have passed, yet the memory is still vivid. It was June 26, 1999, I was only 11 years old, when it happened. I have heard the saddest news I have ever received in my entire life.
It was past midnight when our whole house was awakened by the barking of our dogs and by someone shouting outside our house, calling my father's name. After a few minutes, we have recognized the voice to be my father's uncle. Papa and Mama went outside only to see Lolo Edgar talking while crying, a weep which can easily be described by anyone who can hear it as hurting inside, especially if it is from a man.
I followed my parents as they go outside the house. I trembled upon hearing the bad news. No! It can't be! I have just misheard him! But upon seeing my father and mother's reaction, the tears falling from my mother's eyes, and the closed fist my father had, I realized I've heard the right thing.
My father immediately changed his clothes and went with Lolo Edgar to go to the hospital. Mama and me were left speechless, with tears falling mercilessly while praying that the news we have just heard isn't true.
We were never able to sleep after that. We went to our Lolo's house only to see a heart-breaking situation, with my lola walking back and forth, her handkerchief almost soaked with tears, my youngest aunt who is usually vibrant is sitting in one corner, looking blankly at the people coming, uncle Jayson who loves to tease almost everyone is unusually silent. Even my great grandma and grandpa is there, and my lolo's brothers and sisters, crying their hearts out. My lolo's house was suddenly jump-packed with people, people who have also heard the news and who wants to verify whether it is true or not, and with people who wants to give their condolences to us.
My Lolo--whose kindness exudes from within, whose love towards his children is immeasurable, whose passion to love and to take care of his grandchildren is as vast as the sea, whose ability to deal with different age group of people comes out as natural as the flow of water in the riverbanks, whose perceptive in life influences every people he talks to, whose love to help his fellowmen is as great as the sun, and whose resilience is as firm as the Statue of Liberty--was hit by a bus and was left dead on the spot, with ribs broken. It was twelve midnight along the highways of one of the busiest street in our locality. He was riding his bike from helping a friend whose son will be getting married the following day. He was with one of my uncles driving separate bicycles each. My uncle said that he was reminding lolo to take care and be on the side always, and according to him, that is what lolo did. On his third time in reminding him, he wasn't even finished speaking, he heard a loud crash, accompanied by darkness (lolo is the one bringing the large rechargeable flashlight that is why he is behind my uncle). When he looked back, he saw the flashlight down the road and a speeding bus. Unfortunately, he wasn't able to get the bus' plate number.
And fate of all fate, the bus bears my name! Isn't it an irony that I, his eldest grandchild, whom he had first shown his grandfatherly love would have the same name as the one who killed him? With his death, I have felt the greatest loss among his grandchildren. I was the eldest, and my cousins and siblings were very young then, who have not fully comprehended yet why death happens. Why him? Of all people, why take the person who is very kind and loving?
As a child, I remember him as a great person, and as a great grandfather to me, my siblings and my cousins. During those times, me and my sister were often left at home when mama and papa goes to the neighbouring province to attend to our farm. We would stay in their house and sometimes, it would take a week or so before my parents would go back home. He would help attend to our needs, would play with us, and has lots of stories to tell. During idle hours, even if lola will reprimand him for using the television for long hours, he would ignore her, only because we are enjoying watching whatever the TV program is. During Sundays, he will wake me up early so that I could join him and lola go to church. There was never a time when he's with us that he hasn't showed his love for us.
When he died an unexpected death, our hearts died with him. It took years before we have finally moved on. Sometimes, even just talking about him made us cry.
It has been a hard time for all of us. Even our neighbours had a hard time forgetting him and his kindness. There was even a time when one of our neighbour is crying while drinking with my father and uncles during the first year death anniversary of lolo. He is telling them the story of how his life was changed just by meeting my grandpa.
The driver of the bus was never caught. Up to this time, we are just hoping that God has already punished him for what he did.
In any ways, I am still thankful that I have experienced being loved by a great grandfather. I am sure he is happy wherever he is, looking upon us. He had left us not a fortune of golds, but a fortune of good memories.
We miss you 'tay... We will always love you.
*cries*
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