At the Crematorium

We cremated my brother today at the Eterna crematorium in Valencia. That was the first time I’d see such a thing: a dead body in a dark cavern, in a place that felt both solemn and ominous. My 93-year-old mother sat quietly beside me in the waiting room, surrounded by family, many coming from Bayawan; she is hard of hearing and often forgets things, but she knows what’s going on. Yesterday, I asked her why we were at St. Peter’s Chapel, and she calmly said, “Namatay imong Manong Alvin.” We are not criers as a family, so that serenity, that ungrieving facade was par for the course for us. Today, though, she was a bit restless. “Okay ra ba nga isunog imong manong?” “Okay ra, ma,” I replied. I got she wasn’t used to the idea of cremating a loved one; she probably wanted to see a coffin being lowered to the ground, being covered with soil, the whole burial business. But she nodded. A few minutes later, she asked again: “Okay ra ba nga isunog imong manong?” I held her hand, and again I assured her: “Okay ra, ma.”