To most people, you were the caretaker of my mother and her sisters, and then you took care of their grandparents, my great grand parents. To others, you were a cook, whose food still stirs up pleasant memories of college until now. To a few, you were a friend, a sister, a guiding force. To me, you were, quite simply, Nana: one of the pillars a lonely little girl had to lean upon.
I was so young when you died. All I could do was cry at your bedside as you suffered through your sickness, and cry some more when you didn't wake up that morning. I wasn't able to attend your funeral. They took you back to your family home.
I remember your voice, a bit raspy from all the cigarettes that eventually killed you. I remember your always short hair, black tinged with gray by the time you were sick. I remember your face, wrinkled after 32 years of caring for children who weren't yours. I recall your laughs over a card game, or something someone said or did. I remember, most of all, you cooking in that old bamboo and nipa kitchen that was separated from the old house. I remember the cement sink, and the wood fires. I remember all this with such clarity because if I wasn't in front of the TV, I was in your kitchen bothering you about something while you cooked. I always liked watching you cook. It always seemed like magic to me. One minute there's uncooked fish on the table next to a few cut spices, the next minute, dinner's ready.
To me, you were warmth, and childhood happiness eating chocolate ice candy. No one makes ice candy like you did. You were there before I was born, and every day since, until that summer when I never saw you again. I wish I knew what it meant when you got sick. You never got sick before, I thought you'd get up one day and start getting ready to go to the market at 4 am like you usually did. I'm sorry. I never got to tell you things that I should have, and it seems unfair to have to say them now that you've been gone for so long. But I know you're watching over us like you always did.
I still don't know how to cook your Bangus Steak, Nana. But I'm trying.
