Loved Beyond Life: Gone But Never Forgotten

Grief is something that’s always been there—it always has been.

When you reach the end of October, you will see pumpkins, ghosts, costumes, trick-or-treats, or Halloween parties. But there is also the waxy scent of melted candles floating through the cool air that complements the clean fragrance of fresh flowers. Rosaries are draped over fingertips, picture frames are at the front of the altar, and families are finally connecting physically after months or even years of being apart. It feels like a reunion, doesn’t it?

You’ll eventually find yourself saying: Undas na nga.

Undas is a major tradition of the Filipino people observed every November 1 and 2. Millions of Filipinos flock to public and private cemeteries to honor their departed; burial grounds transform from resting places into sea-lit cities of living memory—a practice deeply rooted in our lives.

But amidst the crowded cemeteries and the loud noise of the season, some days feel completely black and white. There are moments when you cannot help but wish heaven had visiting hours just so you could drop by and check on your departed loved ones.

Aches in the Everyday Absence

I miss the comforting taste of my Nanay’s (grandmother) cooking and the safe, quiet moments of Tatay (grandfather) dropping me off  at school.  

Those simple, everyday routines are the hardest to let go of when the people who anchored them are gone. 

Growing up, I was fortunate enough to experience what people call “grandparents' love,” a unique, irreplaceable kind of warmth that no other affection can match.

According to United Ways of Utah County, a nonprofit organization in the United States, grandparents help pass down family culture, tradition, and history. I believe this is true because Nanay was my primary guide, sharing endless life lessons—from practical wisdom to traditional superstitions, or pamahiin, like avoiding sweeping the floor at night because the fortune might go away, or cutting nails after sundown because something bad might happen, and of course, not sleeping while your hair is wet so you won’t go blind. Significantly, Nanay's enduring presence felt more vividly than in the memories of her cooking. 

Every Saturday or Sunday lunch, she would prepare her signature sinampalukang manok—a comforting dish made even more special because we would all eat together while she cheerfully laid out banana leaves on the table with a lot of rice. She simply loved to cook. The last time I tasted that dish was roughly a decade ago, right before she became bedridden for the final seven years before she passed away. I deliberately chose not to eat it ever again since then; I wanted the first and final taste of her sinampalukang manok to belong solely to her loving hands.

She was meticulous in her cooking, always wanting her children and especially her grandchildren to love and enjoy everything she prepared.   

I learned a lot from her—it’s like exchanging knowledge about what I knew back then, while they tell me what life feels like and what to expect when I grow older.

An article from the University of Florida’s College of Medicine highlights that intergenerational bonds provide both children and the older generation benefits as one can learn from generation to generation.

They never made me feel like a child who is too much from Nanay's cooking meals because I didn’t like the taste of vegetables, and Tatay’s reliable presence is etched deep into my identity. Tatay is the greatest provider, protector, and best friend I had—he molded my personality and the person who I am today.

The Bittersweet Rush of Life and Loss

Kaso wala eh, hiram lang ang buhay.

(But that’s just it, life is only borrowed.)

And its vague reality settles in when daily struggles hit. Nowadays, daily commutes have become increasingly expensive for students and commuters, especially following the recent DOTr fare hikes for public utility vehicles. It makes me yearn for the simpler times of 2017, when Tatay was still around—back when a 50-peso bill could easily buy a full meal at a fast-food chain—and I complain to Tatay just like I used to. 

I find myself reminiscing about my irritated but happy times. I still clearly remember what Tatay promised me back then: "Ihahatid kita hanggang college." (I will drop you off in school until college).

Tatay was the one who tirelessly took care of Nanay during her bedridden years, but in June 2017, we found out he had pneumonia. He kept going back and forth to the hospital because, at that time, he was 78 years old and later on had fluid in his lungs—doctors said it could no longer be cured.

In August 2017, Tatay passed away in a private hospital. Even back then, the system was already deeply flawed and rotten, as the hospital held his body and refused to release his death certificate until his hospital bills were fully paid. Even though guidelines like Republic Act No. 9439 explicitly prohibit hospitals from detaining patients or withholding remains and death certificates over unpaid balances, they still did.

Going through college without him meant facing not only the emotional weight of an unfulfilled promise, but also the daunting reality of navigating a brutal three-to-five-hour daily commute all by myself. In a way, I felt complete growing up because I never had to envy others for being loved by their grandfathers; even Tatay’s last wishes were centered entirely on making sure I am well taken care of. Yet a quiet trail of "what-ifs" and enduring longing remains.

As he grew frail, Tatay whispered a phrase that continues to live in my mind rent-free:

"Sorry, ‘nak, hindi umabot si tatay sa 18th birthday mo" 

(I'm sorry, my child, Tatay didn't make it to your 18th birthday.)

Those painful but gentle words replay endlessly in my head whenever I am exhausted from the daily rush-hour commute. If Tatay were still here, no matter how tired I felt, I would know he was waiting to fetch me, and we would brave those hours of commuting together just to make sure I got home safe. 

Today, in the middle of the crowd and the long journey, I am navigating it alone. 

The Ones Who Left With No Traces

Not all losses come with a tombstone or a designated spot in a cemetery. 

The loss of my dog, Loowee, whose whereabouts remain unknown, leaves a gut-wrenching, enduring longing. He was my best friend, and he taught me how to become patient in things and to show affection. 

There’s always an aching absence of a pet that reflects the concept of pet loss and disenfranchised grief. Scientific studies on human-animal bonds consistently show that dogs and household pets provide constant emotional stability, oxytocin-boosting warmth, and daily companionship, which explains why losing a pet leaves an indelible, deeply painful mark on our hearts from day one.

Until now, I still feel a deep emptiness, especially remembering how he used to faithfully accompany me through the late-night hours while I worked on my academic requirements. He was fiercely protective and deeply loyal. He hated seeing any of us get hurt, and he would grow aggressive if anyone picked a fight with us. 

Carved in Stone, Kept in the Heart

Memories do not merely fade into the background when the candles burn out and the cemetery gates close; instead, they find permanent homes in the stories we share and the tombs we visit. 

We look closely at an epitaph carved into marble, hoping it captures even a fraction of how genuinely good our loved ones were when they walked this earth. But in today's fast-paced world, technology and digital memorials, in which you can preserve stories or biographies of your departed loved ones, can be one of those collections that extend beyond physical tombstones, allowing us to keep their legacies alive across digital spaces.

In the end, memory acts as a bridge that spans the gap between loss and legacy. Life may not be easy, but the values, warmth, and guidance given to us by those who came before continue to light our path. 

Undas reminds us that death cannot erase love. They have already left, but they will never be forgotten.

Forever in our hearts.

Article: Selene Ashlee Vitor

Illustration: Bea Bianca Rivero