Condolence From Israfel

In what used to be paradise, I woke up to----

still bleeding from the previous day of that bloody first day in every month, painful twice this month, what’s wrong, my whole system has been wrong ever since, probably stress, have a check-up again, fuck pills and whatever, that’s what this paradise is for---

And tasting all that I drank to dull the throbbing in Juice

in my mouth,

feeling the mix of alcohol and painkillers

in my blood,

the pain of jumping and twisting around to the music---

----“Lola died today at 8:40 am.”

The last day of the Fool‘s month.

Of course he will say he’s okay.

So I did not ask our father.

I did not talk.

I felt faint--- as if the gray clouds outside had come to my lungs, heavy.

I got up, went to the bathroom, and vomited.

We did not talk about it---- only spoke of mass cards, going to mass perhaps with the cousins, and black---wear black or white, that black pin, for how long, 40 days, a year.

We do not feel grief, except for our father.

After all, we felt no love from her, until the end.

And I feel this---

“My lola died, “ I said to five people.

One saddened said my name and, “Condolence…Come over.”

“I’ve always wondered what that word really means…I can‘t. I‘m not there. You stay well,” I replied.

Two saddened, asked, “How…”

I talked, a little, “Sick, old, time. Dad’s very sad but he just says he’s okay…”

Two said, “Hug niyo na lang…”

I said, “We can’t. He’s in the States…“ then retreated once more to silence.

Three impervious to these things said, “Condolence.“

“I’ve always wondered what that word really means…Thanks. See you on Monday,” I replied.

Remembering that bereft April then blooming May three years ago, when I said to whom was once loved now dead (who had told me that an acquaintance was found dead, stuffed inside a suitcase, fished from the river), I keep my silence when somebody tells me that somebody died. I don’t know what to say. Certainly not Condolence.

Remembering once more those whom I loved who died, whom I want to be still alive and cannot forget.

I think of the hand-me-down-dresses I have in my closet from her, her Omega watch given to my Ate which I had in my jewelry pouch, the white gold chain and diamond cross pendant given to my father which he gave me. I try to remember acts of affection but there was nothing to remember----

This has already been written.

We fly away from what used to be paradise, to return to our individual lives, still intertwined, we---the siblings, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, to wear black, white, a black pin for 40 days, a year.

Four said “Hello” with a joke, an hour or so just after we landed.

It made me smile and I thanked the fourth with a shared Jorie Graham quote, this

Is a world with the recording of birdsong as a substitute for a actual birdsong a world we are ok with being slowly “trained“ to live in?

Four replied, “You’re welcome. You stay safe and I hope you enjoy your vacation.”

I replied that I was back and with the news.

Four said, “Oh, sad to hear that. Condolences to you and your family.”

I said thanks to one of the good ones.

Five was told in a visit, hours later--- the death a thought in between shared thoughts, an afterthought.

Five said that when his grandmother died it was painful and, “Condolence.”

I said, “What does that mean?”

Five answered, “A gesture.”

This has already been written.

I slept, trying to remembering where condolence was.

What condolence meant.

I woke remembering Condolence:

Sooner or later you will go

To Araneta Avenue, the row

Of funeral homes and flower stores,

White flowers and baby’s breath

Magically bursting forth from white pots

To gather around someone in a box

Ready for loading, mass cards processed.

It is usually heavy business,

Not like this, half-mocking or

Coolly indifferent when you and the dead

Weren’t particularly close but in some funerals

I had been to -- really tragic ones --

The sudden demise

Of a child, or someone in his prime, or

A wife of many, many years,

The bereavement is so intense

It is like watching them sift through

The ashes of the house they grew up in.

They cry and beat their chests

Because they want to hold on

And at the same time forget.

You approach the husband who is passing out

The crackers and you want to

Reach inside your wellspring

And offer water to his heart now shrunken

Like a sun-dried tomato and you cannot.

You hear yourself saying condolence,

Not meaning to sound curt or insincere but

No pronouns, the way we say it here,

As if it does not come from you and

Is not directed to anyone in particular

As if it comes from outside of you and

You called it, pointing outside the window

To the ache in the swollen belly of the sky

To the trees letting their branches

Fall to their sides, relenting.

The sixth person I told was a friend:

I thanked him for writing Condolence.

Hoping I never hear it again.