Every year, I make the trip to La Loma Cemetery to visit our family plot and pay respect to our dear departed.  As much as possible, I would go on All Saints Day.  This time around, I went with just my mom on All Souls Day, as Niccolo and I had gone to visit Mike and hear mass at St. Therese of the Child Jesus the day before.  Bea was in the US attending a wedding, Cara in Boracay working, and Niccolo nursing a fever at home.   Niccolo tried convincing me to go another day saying traffic would be terrible.  I knew this was going to be the case, but I was adamant.  Nothing would keep me away.

Armed with two large pots planted with white and yellow flowers, candles and a hat to shield me from the sun, I got into the car to go to San Sebastian and pick up my mom on the way to the cemetery.  Luckily, our driver had shown up, and so I didn’t have to worry about parking the car.

As expected, traffic had been rerouted, but with the help of Waze, we arrived at the 5^th Avenue entrance of La Loma.  Cars were not permitted to enter the cemetery today.  We usually enter through the Rizal Avenue Extension gate as this was nearest the family plot, but then we were not sure if we could get around given the traffic rerouting so we decided to step out and walk.  It was 3pm and the sun was bearing hot on our heads, despite my hat and Dada’s umbrella.  Soon, Dada gave up using her umbrella as there were too many people around bumping into it, and instead used it as a cane.  She held on to me while I carried the bags with the flowers and the candles.

The streets were lined with makeshift tents selling all sorts of snack items and drinks.  All the fast food joints have come out in force.  As usual, flowers and candles were being sold, but the fare seemed to have extended to clothes and shoes.  Lo and behold, there was even one stall selling leftover Halloween costumes, hideous masks, and blinking horns.  About 500 meters from the gate, we found a tricycle driver who agreed to take us to our family plot.  Thank goodness because it was still a distance away.  While riding the tricycle, I started reminiscing days gone by.

As a young child, each trip was wrought with wonder.  My earliest memory of All Saints Day was in the kitchen watching my grandmother prepare her thick chicken asparagus sandwiches.  She would lay slabs of white bread with their edges trimmed on the plate,  place a curly lettuce on top, carefully pile cooked chicken breast, white asparagus, a pickle and a sliced tomato on top, spread her special mayo dressing on top, then finish this off with another slab of bread.  She then wrapped the sandwiches in big paper napkins, carefully tucking the ends inside.  I must have been about four or five years old then, because I still looked forward to eating the chicken sandwich with the surprising burst of pickle flavor, and lick the gooey mayo that inevitably escaped from the sandwich from my fat little fingers.

My grandmother would order the maid to pack her large silver candelabras into her bayong, together with tall thick yellow candles from Divisoria and a box of matches we children were not permitted to touch.  These were loaded into the car, with the basket of sandwiches, cold bottles of Coca-cola, and armloads of festive flowers in pails of water.

The trip to La Loma always seemed to take forever for the young child I was then, and the plot when we got there seemed huge and sprawling.  I knew we were close whenever I would spy the big white angel with wings spread wide, carrying a wreath that stood on top of my grandfather’s tomb.  The plot was ringed by black iron grills, and had two benches on either side of the gate.  Green springy grass covered the ground, a treat to loll around on.

Paul, Pepito and I would scoop up the molten candles and form them into balls.  Whoever formed the biggest ball would be king or queen for the day.  That was our game, as was hide and seek behind lolo’s tomb.  We didn’t mind the grown-ups who were praying the rosary, though we were constantly told to keep quiet at least until the prayers were over, after which lola would distribute sandwiches and Coke. The adults would then  tell us stories about the relatives who were buried there.  But we didn’t much care as we were intent on playing our games.

Early on, it was just that one large imposing tomb with a tombstone that said Jose Iturralde y Manalo.  This was my father’s father.

To its right were two identical smaller tombs on the lawn:  Apolonio Iturralde y Conding and Esperanza Manalo de Iturralde, my great grandparents.  To my child’s mind, they seemed like little castles with turrets all around, and I enjoyed daydreaming about them.  A tiny slab in front was for Enriqueta M. Buenviaje.   I never learned who Enriqueta M. Buenviaje was, but looks like she was an aunt from the inscription on the tombstone.  The inscriptions were all in Spanish, and my mom would explain what they meant.

To the left were two larger tombs on the lawn: one for my father’s brother, Rene Iturralde y Alvaro, and another for his nephew, two-year old Philip Iturralde who had died during Japanese war and who the family always referred to as their little angel.

I was always drawn to the inscription on the tombstone of my uncle Rene, and for some unknown reason those words have haunted me over the years:

“I am tired of tears and laughter

And men that laugh and weep

Of what may come hereafter

For men that sow to reap

I am weary of days and hours

Blown buds of barren flowers

Desires and dreams and powers

And everything but sleep.”

I don’t know who wrote that romantic poem, but I have a sneaky suspicion it was my dad who had adored his older brother and was devastated when he died.

The year I turned ten was cataclysmic for our family.  My father passed away of an aneurism leaving behind a 32-year old widow and five young children aged 4 to 11.  Once again, the inscription was in Spanish, but this time, the words hit home: tu esposa, madre y hijos que no te olvidan.  This was my father buried there, not someone I had never met.  Each year, I would write him letters, telling him how much I missed him, and leave them there.  I never knew what happened to those letters.

To make way for my father’s tomb, they transferred the remains of Apolonio to that of his son, Jose, and placed his marker underneath the angel’s wreath.   His wife Esperanza’s tomb lay intact, looking lonely without him.  I felt bad for them.

Some more years passed, and my grandmother Dominga Alvaro Iturralde (Lola Ingga), my grand aunt Eriberta Manalo Iturralde (Lola Teta) who had reared me as a young child, my aunt and godmother, Maria Luz Alvaro Iturralde (Dada Uds), and my newborn nephew Alfonso Castillo Iturralde were all laid to rest in the family plot.  My aunt Sr. Encarnacion, S.Sp.S. (nee Aurora Alvaro Iturralde, Tita Rory) was buried together with the other Holy Spirit nuns in Christ the King Church.

The inscriptions were now in English, except that of my Lola Teta who had spoken fluent Spanish.   These were no longer just names on the tombstone, but people who had been intimately part of my life, who had cared for and loved me unconditionally, and whom I have loved deeply in return.  I have memories for each one of them, and I would tell these stories to my children.

And because of this, no matter how difficult it is to visit them with all the traffic hassles, I go to say hello each year, offer flowers and candles, pray the rosary for them, and be with them for a brief time, telling them how much I love them.   I believe that my siblings, if they were in the country, would visit them as well.

When I reached home and checked on Niccolo, telling him how tired I was and recounting what had happened to me all day, I mused aloud, “I wonder if my children will visit me too when my time comes?”  I received a tight hug and an “I love you, mom.”  Just as he did yesterday after I stood on tiptoe to plant another kiss on Mike’s tombstone at the Columbarium.   We stood there holding hands, teary-eyed, missing Mike, telling him in our hearts how much we loved him.  Somehow, I felt assured.  It’s the circle of life and love.  It’s what makes us family, and why traditions live on.