I’ll be seeing you in every lovely summer’s day
In everything that’s light and gay
I’ll always think of you that way
I’ll find you in the morning sun and when the night is new
I’ll be looking at the moon but I’ll be seeing you
-Billie Holiday
They have the greatest of love stories. Nothing like Romeo and Juliet’s or any star-crossed lovers that legends are made of. It was special in its simplicity and timelessness. Boy meets girl. Boy dreams of big things. Girl, a dreamer herself, finds herself falling and they make a life filled with love, faith and generosity that has touched countless.
Theirs was the kind of marriage I someday want to have, a true partnership where differences only caused more reason to love one another, being a true family meant being happy just by being together.
Tita Perla, a nurse, gave up her career and created a loving home for her family; Tito Benny finished his residency in the States and it was abroad where they had their two kids, a boy and a girl. One of the Sunday lunch stories I remember clearly was when he was telling me how he worked hard in the States so he could give his family a good life. I cannot forget that particular picture in my mind: a new family struggling to make it, all the while both of them working at it like only two people in love can. Eventually, they moved back to the Philippines where he established his practice and went on to become a famous and accomplished anesthesiologist. Tita Perla, meanwhile, continued to help build their home as the quintessential wife- supporting him every step of the way, always the heart of their home. Conventions and seminars he had to go to- they were together. Hosting parties for colleagues- she made it happen in the most stylish and successful manner.
Tito Benny was the first (and by far, the only) ultimate sartorialist that I have ever known. He always looked dapper and forever the gentleman. He loved beautiful things and everything was an art to him. Dressing up, eating, painting even old liquor bottles, all those wooden carvings from Paete, and yes, his photography. Everything beautiful had a place in his home. Always, he would appreciate people when they looked good, when they took the time to dress nicely. He loved it when Tita Perla had on her classic accessories, some of which she designed herself. When I was young, he would always remind me that my morena skin was gorgeous, and that I had nothing to feel bad about, especially when in the company of more fair-skinned relatives. He also put his foot down when I was about a year old, and it came for me to stop thumb-sucking and drinking milk from feeding bottles. When I was 22 and in the hospital for major surgery in Cebu, he was on the phone with my doctors, guiding them-yes, pestering them- every step of the way. I don’t want my pamangkin to feel any pain. Have her on epidural and anesthesia for two weeks, instead of the usual three days. And to my Mom, O, she’s going to have visitors soon, make sure she powders her nose and has lipstick on. You can also shampoo her hair with a basin, so she still looks beautiful. So, yes, I was comfortably numb, bandaged and drugged. With fresh hair and all prettied up, never mind if my insides felt and looked like a cast member of the Thirteen Ghosts.
In grade school, I remember spending several summers in their home. My prize for doing well in school was to spend it in Manila, the highlight of which was playing at Virra Mall’s McDonalds playground, an idyllic time when they still had strawberry milkshakes. I always stayed at the Muslim room, named for the room theme as a tribute to our Davaoeño roots. I would always, however, find my way to the library, and there I discovered Vogue magazines. I can still remember the smell of the pages, the scratch-and-sniff ads for perfumes, the patterns for the modista to follow. When I got tired of running my fingers on the glossy pages, I turned to Readers’ Digests, National Geographic, and all those books that made me feel grown-up. How can I forget the huge Japanese garden with the koi fishpond? Almost all of the apos have, at one time or another, fallen into that pond. The apos also have another collective memory of him- tangos nose, his habit of gently pulling on the bridge of the nose so, you guessed it- we would have tangos nose. It was his secondary greeting after kissing him hello. (I think the tangos nose worked too well for me because in grade school, classmates would nickname me witch, and not because of any ill temperament.)
Eating was another art form for him. He enjoyed good food, and even better company. Meal times were always classic and comforting, the primness of which I hated for a while back. (My rebellion, wanting to break away from tradition. But I digress. More on that, later.) We would sit at the dining table and start with prayers, usually done adorably by the little ones. I used to be one of those, by the way, adorable or not. Each meal we had the proper setting, with elegant cutlery, silverware. We always used proper table napkins, not tissue. I remember he would want his viand one at time on his plate, not the mash-up two or more ulams most of us have. There was always Cebu lechon on special occasions and on Thanksgiving, turkey, our traditional eggnog, potato salad made pink by beets. Always, there would be dessert and with meals, Coke. I remember doing groceries with Manang Inday at nearby Unimart; we would buy Coke (litro)- by the crate! (Come to think of it, the rest of my family are such soft drink and dessert addicts.)
I was brought up prim and proper, partly from traditional parents, grandparents and some by Tito Benny and Tita Perla’s influence. It was always about behaving properly, whether at the dining table or in parties; doing good in school; knowing what to wear. I used to resent that part of my upbringing; I abhorred being the good girl, being the role model for everyone, (as the eldest grandchild from both sides.) I felt suffocated by all these expectations so that yes, I learned to roll my eyes at even these classic gestures at mealtimes. Enter this girl who as much as possible, tried to get away from who she is by asserting as much independence and self-reliance as she could muster, being as far away as possible from the noise, and doing things the way she wants. Maybe I’ve grown up, or maybe I’ve come back full circle, but I have accepted that part of me and thankfully, I learned to look in the mirror and have come to love what I’ve become- most of the time. Hey, I’m a work in progress.
Tito Benny died last June and I could barely write and think about him without crying. I feel sad for Tita Perla, I feel her pain for losing her great love, something which most of us can only hope to have. After almost 50 years of marriage, Tita Perla can no longer serve her “ex-boyfriend and housemate’s” dinner plate. (Yes, they still called each other that, prompting fake-swooning looks from Melai and myself.) In her eulogy to him, she narrated how, in the last few years of Tito Benny’s sickness, he would always apologize to her, and thank her. Inday, I’m supposed to be the one taking care of you, I’m sorry. And always, Thank you, for every little thing that she did for him. Their home, which he has built for her in a span of a decade, continues to be my dream home to this day. It’s not only the artistic décor, the classic furnishing, and the koi pond that I love, but the fact that this was home to them and it meant family.
I don’t believe in regret, but this is as close as I get. There were reasons- there still are- why I didn’t exert too much effort. Or why I deliberately stayed away. While there may be reasons, they may now seem flimsy excuses, and even I can’t understand what these are. Maybe it was the pressure of having to live up to his expectations. He never did impose in any way; you just felt it and experienced it in the way he lived his life. It was also quite a disappointment to me that none of the guys I met would have been able to stand an introduction to Tito Benny. He didn’t know it, but he was to be my definitive benchmark. A man I could introduce to him and have him approve would have been, for me, The One. Oh I could imagine the scrutiny he’d have to stand up to, but since Tito Benny was as close to me as an ideal man, he’d have to live up to it. The depth and variety of conversations they’d have, the diverse passions they’d share tips on those Sunday lunches, the pieces of advice he’d dispense. Their blessing would have meant a lot to me. (Incidentally, there were some who got close, but thankfully, I don’t make the same mistake twice.)
I mourn for the new events and people in the family he will not get to meet; Chloe who I know he’ll have a great time teasing and teaching since she looks like Tita Perla and a lot like a Nuñez; having him guest in my future book launching, witnessing my brother’s success in graphic arts, or simply taking time to catching up over coffee and his current favorite cake. I cry for the loss of a mentor, a granduncle, an old-fashioned ideal. I am very thankful that I have gotten to know him, as much as I could. I am only one of the few blessed to have known him; his wake was filled with stories of how he has fully lived and made a difference. Hundreds of stories woven into a tapestry of love that comforted the family and made him bigger than life. I am comforted by the knowledge that somehow, Tito Benny and my Lolo are together somewhere. I pray that they be my angels, these two men who have generously lived and continue to live in me through the dreams they inspired in me.
In the meantime, Tito B, I’ll always have that lipstick on, and I’ll be seeing you.
