I waited two months to clean out the house. They never tell you that you can’t prepare for it. Sure, you can try to tell yourself it doesn’t matter and it’ll just be going through some old items. Things. Inanimate objects that have long outlived their usefulness. It shouldn’t be hard.
But it is.
Chino and Arla both said they would help, but that wouldn’t be right. They both had lives and families and other things to worry about. The last client I had dropped me after some creative disagreements and I had all the time in the world.
I took some balikbayan boxes and garbage bags with me and drove up to my ancestral house. In the afternoon light it radiates days long past, of playing in the garden and moonlit talks about the crushing emptiness of life.
The first thing I gave away were his books. Lolo loved reading and the nights when he would come visit us, he would stay by our beds and read us a story. Some of them weren’t really appropriate for children and mama would scold him, but I loved them. He would always make these funny faces and change his voice every time a different character spoke. I think that without those stories I wouldn’t have become an artist.
I didn’t have any space for lolo’s books, neither did Chino or Arla. We all agreed that they were better of with people that would read them. Chino made a list of charities that we could send them to and I put them in my car and drove out to donate them.
It hurt like hell. Every time I gave away a volume it was like losing a little piece of lolo. I try to remind myself; items. Things. Objects. They’re not lolo, they never were.
But it’s just so easy to forget.
The next place to get through was his bedroom. This would be the hardest part, the whole essence of lolo was in this room. It was here that he kept his rickety typewriter because he never trusted technology enough to get a computer. He had photo albums here that spanned nearly a century, pictures of him and lola and mama being happy together.
I open the door and it almost knocks me down. It’s dark and heavy, and I feel sepia tones bounce through my head. There was no mistaking the scent of lolo’s cologne. This was the cologne that clung to his clothes, his hats and would clasp to his grandchildren’s hair for hours after he would carry them. It lasts for maybe 3 minutes, long enough for me to try to find its source.
But it disappeared, leaving me alone.
And for the first time in a few days I cry again.
Lolo’s cologne was something I’ve long forgotten. In his last months the hospital became his new home and there was no time to think about his daily routine of putting on a suit and spritzing one on the neck and the other on the center of his shirt.
I breathe deep and sit down. They said that this would happen, that the guilt would slowly creep in. I let it wrap around me like a blanket. I should have been there for him, I should have canceled my projects and stayed by his side. Maybe if I was there, I would have seen him when he—
The thought settles in my head for a good hour, and then another, until I feel strong enough to stand again. My sleeve gets soaked with my tears and I bring up the balikbayan boxes to do what I need to do.
His clothes would go to Segunda Mana, it was the one of the first things Arla saw when she was looking for places to donate. All of the antiques would have to be cataloged because Chino wants to sell them online. Typical, he always expected me to do the legwork.
I looked at my handiwork and it was enough to bring a slight smile to my face. If nothing else I completed the task I set for myself and I could hang my hat on that. As I moved the boxes, I glimpsed another challenge.
It was the photo albums.
One of lolo’s proudest achievements was that he bought a camera in the 70s. Lola always said that he never liked the pictures he saw in magazines, so he decided to do it himself. He would tell stories about his camera (that he would always keep around), but we all just smiled and nodded politely. He would stop in the middle of conversations if he thought that he could get a good shot of something.
Looking back, I wonder where that camera was. After sifting through all the things left behind, I still was never able to find it. Part of me likes to think it’s with my lolo, wherever he is.
I picked up the first album and prepared myself. Surrendering to the allure of looking through the albums wasn’t the smartest option. It would break my emotions just to put them back together. But I wanted to be closer to lolo, if only for a little while.
After the first three albums I decided to get a glass of water and managed to knock down the pile of albums, if Chino were here, he’d say that I was an uncoordinated bull in a china shop. As I knelt down to fix the mess, I noticed an album smaller than the rest. It had a dark green cover and was unmarked (Lolo always labeled his albums).
With nothing else to do I leafed through it.
To this day I’m still not sure what is in those photos.
It looked like a small child, maybe 7 years old with skin that was green that had a slightly black hue. Its eyes were big and black, and it almost looked like it was wearing goggles.
The album was filled with pictures of this creature as well as those of crowds looking at it from a distance.
I took the first picture out of the album and saw that there was something written behind it.
“San Joaquin, Pasig. November 1981.”
I did the same with the other pictures and strung the sentences together.
“There were reports of something that was fished out of the Pasig River.”
“This was taken in the Municipal Hall.”
“Many people were there to see the creature.”
“It was kept in a jail.”
“I pitied it. It looked scared to be around so many people.”
“I stayed as long as I could and took as many photos of it as possible. The police officers don’t seem to care.”
(This photo was of the front of the Municipal Hall) “The police are telling people that the creature is gone.”
“Some people are being told that it was taken by someone that claimed that it was their child.”
“Others say that it was thrown back into Pasig River by order of the Mayor.”
(This photo was of a page of a newspaper) “The story was published in the papers, but the general public seems to have moved on.”
The last picture was of the Pasig River that was labeled “March, 1990” on its back was written:
“The only people that remember the creature are decrepit seniors like me. I stay by the river every week in hopes that I catch a glimpse of it, just one last time.”
I haven’t told anyone of what I found. I don’t even think I can trust Chino or Arla about it. If it was up to them, they would have just thrown it away and not given it a second thought.
They never understood lolo like I did.
That day I went to the mall and bought a camera. I didn’t know how to use it, but there was time to learn.
Every day I sit by the Pasig River and look through the album to remember why I’m there.
All because of one blank sleeve at the end of the album.
This is for you, lolo.
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Written by Karl Gaverza
Copyright © Karl Gaverza
Story inspired by the urban legend of the Pasig River Monster.
http://philurbanlegends.blogspot.com/2013/07/pasig-river-monster.html
The Pasig River Monster Illustration by Michael Sean B. Talavera
IG: @maykelshan
Deviantart: https://www.deviantart.com/isaneleach13
