“I told you to be careful!” his grandmother yelled as she tweaked his ear.

“I am sorry, Grandma,” he mumbled, words coming out between sobs.

He was being extra careful in carrying the bowl. Somehow, he missed the steps as he went down the bamboo stairs. The bowl flew off his hands as he slid, his spine hitting the ladder rungs like a finger running down the piano keys.

He picked up the upturned bowl, his back stinging from the fall. The still steaming small pieces of bananas, sweet potatoes, jackfruit, tapioca, and shreds of coconut littered the bottom of the stairs, the parched earth slowly soaking up the creamy, sweet liquid of the native delicacy that his grandmother slaved over for hours.

Picnic lunch was without dessert, the rest of the family looking at him. He was not sure whether the looks were of disappointment, anger, or sympathy, but he felt very guilty. The weekend vacation at the farm was not a happy one.

His grandmother really loved him. He was her favorite among her grandchildren.

She regularly visited the city, looking pretty and proud to be in a native dress. She always looked for him.

“I am going to the market and I am taking you with me,” she brightly motioned.

“Yippee! Thank you, Grandma!” he excitedly answered as his grandmother hailed a kalesa, a two-wheeled horse drawn carriage driven by a kutsero.

“Be careful,” she instructed, the carriage sagging and wobbling as she plopped down in the seat.

“Yes, Grandma,” he grunted, the kutsero easing him up.

He giggled as he squeezed himself next to her, the kutsero making clicking sounds with his tongue to move the horse.

Going to the market with his grandmother was always fun because of the favorite native sweets and desserts she would get for him. The downside; however, was her popularity at the market. She would stop to talk to practically everyone, much to his annoyance and boredom.

A bamboo and nipa hut was her home in the farm. Petite and fragile, she was no pushover being the matriarch of the family. Everyone would take heed when she barked an order or reprimand; her softhearted caring side always primed when needed.

His grandmother was quite resourceful. She grew tobacco in the nearby fallow plot of land, the leaves being hung to dry under the house.

One time, his cousin and he stealthily took some dried tobacco leaves. They rolled mini-cigars for each other, several puffs filling their tiny lungs.

“Oh, my! I think I am going to get sick!” his cousin cried.

“Me, too!” he echoed. “My head is spinning and I feel like vomiting!”

They rushed to a nearby cluster of creaking bamboo trees. They retched, keeping their smoking escapade for none to hear, especially their grandmother.

She came to the city one weekend to bring fruits from trees she had grown. He enjoyed another kalesa ride, sweets and delicacies at the market, the chats not bothering him this time.

Supper came and everyone was settling down for the night.

“Mother, oh, Mother!” a scream reverberated through the house.

Immediately, he rushed to check!

His mother was at the top of the stairs, sitting with his grandmother’s head in her lap. She was anxiously wiping the blood as his grandmother coughed between labored breathing.

His sister ran to the nearby hospital for help. He stood immobile while everyone dashed in and out of his field of vision like streaks of colors in a painting.

“Mother, Mother, please be okay!” his mom continuously wailed, helplessly rocking his grandmother as precious seconds and minutes ticked away. Then everything stopped, frozen like a tableau.

He stared at the sight as if to deeply embed the tragic moment in his memory.

He couldn’t remember what followed anymore. However, clear as day was his recollection of his grandmother being embalmed and prepared at home. Being curious, he was the only one who watched, asking questions occasionally. He smiled when all was done.

“Time to go visit grandma,” voiced his mom.

“Okay, Mom.”

It was All Soul’s Day, a commemoration of the dear departed. A day they both looked forward to. With flowers and candles, they visited his grandmother’s grave that morning. They had to rush back home because of the rain.

It was near dusk, the whirring sound of the sewing machine and a beautiful song from the transistor radio filling the room. His mom was finishing a pajama bottom, his ears glued to the music.

“What’s the matter, Mom?” he asked when he noticed that the sewing machine turned quiet and his mom looked solemn.

“I am remembering your grandmother, my mother,” she answered as she broke into sobs.

He gently rubbed her shoulder while turning down the song on the radio that triggered the emotion.

The wailing subsided as he wiped his own tears.

That night, he slept soundly in his new pajamas.