LISTEN TO ARTICLESynthesized Narration • 0:00 / 0:00

I lost my grandmother, but my mother lost her mom and it's heart-rending. 5 hours after when my lola departed from this earth, the shine in my mother’s eyes left with her. Still, she attended to each and every one of the paperworks and chores even if grief struck her soul heavily. 2 days later in the funeral home, it felt like everything had dimmed. Friends and extended family have come to visit my lola's wake. My mother, the kind-hearted woman she is, still approached and greeted guests with a warmth-filled smile even if it didn’t quite reached her eyes. While driving to the graveyard to finally bury my lola, my mother didn't shed a tear—she couldn't and even if she wanted to, she won't be able to because she has to get us to the graveyard safely and to keep the funeral procession orderly. She must remain as a pillar of strength, even if she badly needed a shoulder to cry on. Years after her death, nothing was the same. My lola’s sudden weekly visits to our home when she was still alive weren't a thing anymore, we're just waiting for the day to pass by. I was not the only one who missed it, mostly it was my mother. During family gatherings, homemade meals prepped with love by my lola were changed into restaurant-bought food because none can reciprocate the same warmth my lola used to put in her meals. Chicken Adobo and Pakbet just doesn't taste the same anymore, even though we followed my lola’s recipe bit by bit. But my mother still tries to at least bring back the old days, even if the memories make it hard to stir the pot. When holidays roll by, my lola would always be the first one to ring us up. Asking us how we were doing, if my mother was doing okay or if me and my younger sister weren't causing a ruckus. A small gesture, yet, it meant a lot for my mother. Now, my mother sits by the phone, anticipating for my lola to call but eventually realised that no one will be there to check up on us anymore—old habits die hard, as they say. My lola loves to take pictures—fascinated by technology, she always took pictures in weird, unflattering angles. My mother never missed the chance to tease her about it, yet, underneath it all, my mother will always tell us how proud she is that she never took us to the dentist because my lola would always be the one to perform tooth extraction herself with a single thread. It never hurt, actually, it was satisfying. Sometimes, my lola would take her selfies at the right angle, the ones with solid colored backgrounds and looking straight at the camera. It was supposed to be for her senior citizen I.D and other documents—or maybe, she was preparing for something else. And she was, and we never imagined we would use one of her pictures to commemorate her after her death. My mother stares at the framed picture of my lola she hung in the living room, as if her sorrowful gaze can bring her back. But whenever I see her stare at the picture, all I see is a young version of my mom, begging my lola who was still in her young 30s and bones that don't ache when she bends to pick her up. Whenever I watch my mother eat her meals by herself, all I see is the baby version of my mom being fed by my lola—her mama. All messy yet the warmth and love is still there. At night, I sometimes walk by her room and hear sniffles. I only hear them when my mother's day was awfully stressful, when my lola’s birthday is coming up, or when her death anniversary is only a midnight away. The ironic part of my lola’s death anniversary? It is the same day we celebrate my younger sister’s birthday. What is supposed to be a day to celebrate turning a year older, is shared with remembering a lost soul. I cannot even begin to fathom how you can celebrate your child’s another year of living and honor your late mother all at once. My mother is extraordinary and resilient, just like that. Yet, when my mother tries to hide her sorrows through the face of a soldier, I see right through her. But as long as I am here, my mother's grief won't go overlooked. In little, mundane stuff, her subtle ways of overcoming grief will always be noticed by me—and I hope she notices it too. To all mothers who lost their moms out there, you are stronger than you think. Being able to handle the paperworks, comforting other family members who are also grieving, and doing chores even if grief sits heavy on your soul takes willpower that not even I can do. You are seen, you are allowed to mourn every time you feel the need to. Your grief isn't small, you’ve lost an extension of you after all. Just because you're a mother, doesn't mean you have to “hold it all together”.