Writing in this journal is supposed to be mind-clearing, and I don't know when I'll be "ready" to confront [or finish coping with] the loss of the woman who helped raise me until I was three years old; the person I nicknamed "Mommy" as soon as I learned to speak English.
In a way, I'm grateful to be unavailable for the Wake. I'd like to remember her as she was the year Before, when I flew up for Daddy's funeral. The image of my newly inked back delighted my grieving grandmother. Mom, true to form or Nature, was aghast by the shoulder-to-shoulder design. While she scolded her only daughter--a lesbian!--over unfeminine tastes, Mommy sat shaking in her wheelchair, hysterical-laughing over the tattoo and absurdity of the situation.
C. Masikat (a former seamstress and then teacher by profession, whose first name bears my namesake) was a bright and enduring presence. She never lost her courage or sense of humor in spite of increasing physical debility. Following in her footsteps, I don't mean for this post to sound morose. In the Philippines, death is just another excuse to throw a party. It's like celebrating a birthday only you're saying goodbye to a loved one.
Bye Mommy. Love you.
(Mahal kita, 2/15/2005)
