ULOG#13 - What my brain thinks of in a wake.

Old Mr. Anastacio Domino died. I kept wondering that day what the protocol is for wakes. Ive only been in three wakes, all I don’t recall very well, because I was brought along by my parents, too young to even care about an old third cousin, my parent's Godmother, and a classmate's mother. Now that I am older, I really want to visit Mang Domeng's wake and is all nervous about it.

Mang Domeng lived just a few blocks from us, living with his child with her husband and his three grandchildren. His daughter is a happy face I see almost every morning of my life, sweeping the front of their home or tending her garden, asking me how my studies are going, and recently, always asking me about my life here in the University of the Philippines and when I am expected to graduate. The oldest grandson is a year or two older than me, a playmate on my younger years and a schoolmate in highschool. But they're not the reason I'm determined to visit the wake. It is to remember Mang Domeng, who I see everyday when we were both younger, but whose friendly face I get to see lesser and lesser as we both age.

He used to sell home made ice, ice water, and ice candies during the summer of my youth. The stone hard ice would emit cool smoke, which would hurt my tender fingers as I run with it across the several blocks separating his home from ours. I remember, I told him this struggle once, and since then, he would place the purchased ice in reused plastic from packed brownies and will laugh as I squeel upon receiving the cold block. “Careful.” He always said, as I start to run home, ice in hands.

Now, late at night, at eleven, I came to visit. I chose the time when most of the people had left, so I could avoid the noises they make and catch the stories told after most people had left instead. But most of all, to think about all of this. This wake.

MY TRAIN OF THOUGHT:
When you were alive, did you ever imagine that when you die, they'll place your empty vessel of a body next to a wall on the far end of the garage? I am sure that he's not here anymore, but it's all in the mind isn't it? Because children, having seen the remains of the dead in a coffin can only declare them asleep. Anyway, I can't even imagine the blood drying out in his veins, because they sucked out all of the blood already, then painted over the pale complexion and graying lips, so people and relatives can see his usual face one last time.

I don't want to be painted pretty, just so I could look pretty for people who doesn't really remember me, or didn't make an effort to see me when I'm alive. I know it's a bit close-minded, like my father retorted when I brought up this thought, “Well, you can't rule out the people who doesn't have a choice because they live too far away, or are too busy for their own good.” Well, my reason is, that is the last time people will see my face. A pile of dead cells, painted over to look pretty. I ask my father if it is possible to request not having a wake and just as soon as possible bury me when Im dead. Because, when you think about the last time you saw me, I don’t want anybody to remember a painted face behind the glass of a manicured coffin. I want people to remember the last time they saw me as someone breathing, laughing, living, even though that last memory of me is hazy from so much years that have passed. I just don’t want my last personal apperance in people's memory as dead. Even if your memory of when you last saw me is when I ate your eraser back in kindergarten (that never happened by the way), well, you get to keep that memory. You don’t get to see me one last time, dead. Like, “The last time I saw her, she was dead. I peeked into her coffin”. I'd strongly prefer: “The last time I saw her, she was sleeping with drool in history class” then you'd laugh, and I'll laugh as well if I could.

One of our neighbors is there, chatting with my father about their leaking gas pipe. She was holding a fan together with a photo of some sort which caught my eyes. It would look great to paint with watercolor, I thought so I borrowed it. It was an appreciation card from the family to the visiting families and friends, thanking them for their sympathy. The card was provided by St. Peter, DeathCare Experts, as said on the back.

The glossy front of the photo shows the sky, the sun, and tulips from a worm's eyeview. The first thing that came into my head is, “Is this supposedly what you'll see lying on the ground?” At first I thought it was clever, comforting even, because of the idea of lying on the grass. But I figured the tulips were too tall if it is a view from the ground and it started to look like what you'll see from below the ground. I tucked the picture in the pockets of my jacket because our neighbor went home without it anyway.

I wondered who decides what to put on your tombstone. I guess the closest relatives do. Unless you told a friend what you wanted inscribed in your tombstone. Whose point of view are those tomb notes from anyway? “A loving father”, “Loved and lost” (from Jeff the killer), “He found the great manifesto”.. Huh, so the notes were from the people left behind. Others often inscribe a quote or phrase often said by the deceased. Right now, in my state of mind and maturity, I would want people to inscribe: “Stay awesome”. It goes both ways, see? You tell me to stay awesome, and some stranger who'll pass by will read it, so it's like I told them to stay awesome. They'd hopefully smile. I also really want a narra tree planted near my grave, so I might request not being buried in a local, crowded cemetery. I might buy a piece of land somewhere, whom the owner I shall befriend first hopefully, before I get old and die. Now that the train of thought had detoured to me, planning my death and grave, let's go back to the family he left behind.

They look a bit sad, and quite fine with his death. He lived for 90 good years, and his family seemed to understand that he's resting now. They say he's been strong until his last few months, eating healthyly and walking around. Now, they say, he's resting, gone away, like it's some sort of vacation. Passed away, because like the bible said, human lives or existence passes by like steem. Expired, like your beloved dead one is a bottle of milk, or canned good which curdles, turns sour, and becomes pungent. All these euphemisms aside, nothing says it more real than: he's dead. The life has left him. And it's not a bad thing, because it is God who dictated it, only He can give and take lives, and he gave Mang Domeng 90 years.