Love and a Special Anniversary

Catching up on my blogging, I've noticed that the hot topic has been V-Day. I don't think I've ever been a big fan of V-Day since I hit puberty. I can ID several reasons. One is bitterness (I still advertise myself as the anti-romantic). Another is that I've convinced myself that a romantic engagement would distract me from friendships I already have; all too oft I've seen friends go missing for months at a time, only to see them come back when their relationships end less-than-amicably. And yet another is that V-Day is just plain insignificant compared to today.

What is today? It's an anniversary. It's the anniversary of my mother's 50th birthday. It's the anniversary of my family gathering to sleep under the same roof. It's the anniversary of the alarm going off in my room, playing Sophie B. Hawkins's "As I Lay Me Down". It's the anniversary of being forced to confront questions of the divine. It's the anniversary of understanding sorrow for the very first time. It's the anniversary of the day I began my life.

Nine years ago, Grandpa passed away.

I still carry the card from the funeral home in my wallet. You know, the one with the picture of Jesus on one side, and on the other, the 23rd Psalm ("The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want..."), with the name and years of birth and death in gold lettering at the top? It's tattered now, although you can still make out the inscription: "Feliciano A. Bautista: 1920 1996".

It's hard to remember how I lived before then. I have plenty of memories before that day. I remember going to Disneyland. I remember Grandpa walking me to elementary school every day. I remember the family Christmas parties, and collecting baseball cards, and watching Ducktales afterschool, and a whole bunch of other stuff. I've got plenty of memories. Thirteen years worth. But to remember how I lived? I can't remember living before then.

I made some promises. I promised to be generous. I promised to love. I promised to be bold. I promised to be thankful. I promised to be passionate. I promised to live. I promised to change the world. I promised to extract every ounce of joy from every single day. Because old Filipino farmhands with 4th grade educations don't raise grandsons for nothing.

I think about how well I've lived up to those promises. I've had my shining moments. But I haven't been perfect either. Occasionally I've forgotten my vows, allowing myself to get caught up in the shallowness of trivial concerns, like image or popularity. But I've always come back. And today always brings me back. Mostly for my own good.

But part of it is motivated by a regret. I never told him "I love you" enough. The promises were a contract. A debt to Grandpa, to be repaid, with interest, to all who come after. To make up for lost "I love you"s. But nothing can repay lost opportunities. At times the promises were blessings. They were a guide, a direction for a noble life. Other times, they've felt like harsh reminders of a personal debt that can never be repaid.

If you're wondering if the pain of losing a loved one ever goes away, it doesn't. The pain is always there, it's just as powerful as the first day and occasionally it reaches the surface. I still miss him. I still cry at night. But by the same token, it can also be the most powerful and motivating force you will ever have. It can unlock levels of joy and happiness you never thought were possible. But only if you allow yourself to accept it. That's been my struggle for the past nine years, and will be for the rest of my life: the struggle to accept. And maybe that's what love really is: acceptance.

So maybe I've been lying this whole time. Maybe I am a romantic after all. And maybe I am a huge advocate for V-Day. It's just that my V-Day comes two days later.


In Memory of
Feliciano Agbuya Bautista
December 26th, 1920 - February 16th, 1996