And whenever a cousin of mine visits you,
I give them a call.
Not to chat with them —
obviously, that’s expected —
but that’s not the reason why.
I call just to see you.
“Oy, saan si Nanay?”
That’s always how I start.
Not:
“Hello.”
“Saan si Mama?”
“Sila Uncle, saan?”
No — those are trivial to me,
at least whenever someone visits her.
They matter, yes,
but in those few, gravely short moments,
Grandma is the most important.
I could’ve called you myself —
if you hadn’t blacklisted me from your phone.
A just dessert, I suppose,
for not giving you the time you asked for.
And worse —
for ever letting my thoughts wander,
thinking of you as part of the background noise.
“Wala na akong pe.”
Your usual line.
And I’d send money out of duty.
Tragic, how it was duty first
before I felt the want, the emotion,
the love
to give without being asked.
I’m really not a good kid.
I’m sorry I turned out this way.
It’s not your fault.
But…
let’s not talk about me.
“Sige, Nay, papadala ako,”
I’d always reply.
“Okay pa yung padala d’yan, Nay?”
Me, asking if the transfer still works.
Oh, how I wish I could visit
like I used to.
Oh, how I wish I could stay again
for weeks, months —
just being your grandchild.
Oh, how I wish I could carry rocks again —
or boulders, or mountains —
back to your garden.
“Kailan uwi mo dito?”
you’d always ask.
Never:
“Kailan balik mo ulit dito?”
Always uwi.
Always reminding me
that there will always be a home
to come back to.
Then, with a smile, you’d say:
“Ikaw talaga ang paborito kong apo.”
And it would ache.
Every time.
Because I always feel two things.
One:
I don’t deserve to be called that.
I wasn’t a good child.
I know I should be proud,
but it never felt mutual.
Still —
believe me —
I tried to live up to it.
A constant.
A quiet promise.
A mask I wore
through phone screens and long distances.
And the other feeling?
It was the growing space
between me and my cousin.
We don’t talk now,
but I know we’re still friends —
or maybe the best of friends.
Like that graffiti on your wall,
the one neither of us confessed to,
scribbled in the best handwriting we had.
I hope that promise,
written in stone,
holds longer than we ever expected.
With my face trying not to blush,
I’d say:
“Sige, Nay, pakabait ka d’yan.”
A silly line I made up as a kid —
and still use,
even now.
I always wanted to speak more.
Or maybe…
maybe you did.
But time gave me less and less
to give more of mine to you.
I admit this to sin.
I hope you’ve forgiven me
every time.
I remember you waving bye,
handing back the phone to my cousin.
I wish he visited you more.
I wish he always had signal,
battery,
load,
or time —
just to stand near you
whenever I called.
I wish you never blocked me.
I wish I could’ve called directly.
I wish I was never busy
when you called.
I wish I never put you on silent.
I wish I never made you a background notification.
I wish these weren’t the reasons
we can’t call each other anymore.
I wish distance wasn’t so far.
I wish I could visit.
I wish I had more time
so I could spend more time with you.
I wish you had more time
so I could still give mine
to you.
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