02/11/2024
๐๐ถ๐ธ๐ผ, ๐๐ถ๐ป๐ถ๐ด๐ป๐ถ๐, ๐ฎ๐ป๐ฑ ๐๐ต๐ฒ ๐ง๐ถ๐ฑ๐ฒ๐ ๐ผ๐ณ ๐จ๐ป๐ฑ๐ฎ๐
Undas in the Philippines is no ordinary day off; itโs a reunion with the past, and, as a student in Tacurong City, itโs my excuse to hop on a six-hour bus ride home and get lost in both memories and traffic. As soon as November rolls around, my social media feed is packed with friends from all over posting about their own trips back to their hometowns, preparing for candlelit nights in the cemetery, family reunions, and all those little rituals we only think about once a year.
For me, this six-hour journey home has its own rhythm. Thereโs something surreal about watching the familiar landscape reappear as the bus rolls closer to the coast, where I swear even the air feels different, fresher. In Tacurong, my life feels fast-paced, punctuated by deadlines, projects, and the relentless pursuit of academic survival. But back home? Time slows down. Even before the bus stops, I can already picture my lolaโs beaming smile, my aunties gathered around, all eager to catch up on my city lifeโor, rather, interrogate me on why I donโt call more often.
Stepping off the bus, everything looks almost the same, yet somehow different. The sari-sari stores I used to pass as a kid are still there, but with a fresh coat of paint and a new generation behind the counter. The tricycle drivers, who used to give me a free ride, now look at me as if Iโm an outsider. Five months might not sound like a long time, but here, even a single season can bring changes.
The day of Undas itself is like stepping into a strange, wonderful time warp. My cousins and friendsโall of us somehow more mature yet just as foolish as when we were kidsโgather together. But this year, I notice something different: faces that were once as familiar as my own have grown more distant. Their features are the same, but their stories are newer, details overlapping with memories that used to define them in my mind. They talk about things I wasnโt there for, people I donโt know, and places I havenโt been. Itโs like Iโm seeing new versions of themโversions I havenโt quite met yet.
And then thereโs my lola. Sheโs been telling the same stories for as long as I can remember. Theyโre stories of family, faith, and humor, of the values she hopes we hold on to. Her tales havenโt changed; theyโre unmovable, like the roots that anchor our family tree. But I notice that her voice is softer now, a little more strained, as if the years are catching up to her. Her laugh, though still warm, carries a hint of exhaustion, like itโs traveled a great distance to reach us.
After the candles have burned low at the graves and our voices have softened, we make our way to the shore. This is the part that feels like home, a ritual older than any of us. The ocean is our constant. Sitting by the waves, we share lolaโs biko and binignit, their flavors reminding us of home as much as the view does. Thereโs something about the ocean breeze, the familiar scent of salt and coconut, and the rhythm of the waves that makes us feel like those whoโve passed are still with us, still part of the beat of life here.
My cousins and I sit quietly, letting the sound of the water fill the spaces left by all the things we donโt say, each of us in our own way trying to hold onto the past while life pushes us forward. And my lola, in all her wisdom, sits beside us, occasionally interrupting our existential conversations with more snacks and a look that says, โJust remember, all of you still need to finish school.โ It's comforting, in a way, that she's still around to remind us of our goalsโand to make sure weโre eating enough.
As the waves lap gently against the shore, I realize that Undas isnโt just a day to remember the dead. Itโs a reminder that no matter how far we go, how much we grow up, thereโs always a placeโand a peopleโwaiting for us, just beyond the next tide.
โ Cedrix Calip
