My grandma died earlier this month. It’s taken a while to find the negative of this photograph and the words.
We affectionately called her Nanay. She survived Japan’s invasion into the Philippines in World War II, the murder of her husband who died in her arms and she survived childbirths and traumatic accidents.
She always seemed to me a conduit between the whispering spirit world and the surface one, an oracle by her way of life, pointing to the beauty of our smallness, our gentleness, our luck as humans.
In her distinct joy was the heart of her wisdom. I’d always joke with her and goad her into smiling. She’d then tighten her face and ball her small hands into fists striking the bobbing pose of a feisty bantam-weight fighter. And in this trade we’d laugh together struck by the idea of my little Filipino grandma knocking me out.
There’s much more of course but that’s all that needs to be said now.
If God Was Here
they would make me a pb&j sandwich so good
I would forget all my
and worldly attachments