The Language Of Late Gratitude

By: Elyza C. Palawan

Grade 12 - Sartre

Back then, when I was in elementary school, every afternoon felt like a small homecoming. The moment I stepped through the door after class, Grandma would hand me her favorite biscuits—the sweet, crumbly kind that melted like comfort on my tongue after a long day. On rainy afternoons, when the sky poured angrily and the earth turned muddy, she would appear carrying an umbrella just for me. She wrapped only a thin towel around her shoulders, her clothes damp from the rain, but she kept me dry. That was the kind of love she gave—quiet, selfless, overflowing like a river that never ran dry.

Grandma was my umbrella, shielding me from storms I didn’t even see coming. At dawn, when the birds chirped like little choirs and roosters crowed their morning song, she was already in the kitchen. The smell of warm pandesal drifted through the air, mingling with the steam from a glass of milk she carefully placed on the table. It was her way of saying, “Good morning, I care for you,” without words. Though we weren’t the closest, I always knew her kindness wrapped itself around me like a soft blanket.

Of course, she sometimes nagged me. I’d come home with mud-streaked shorts and a sweaty, dirt-smudged face from playing outside.

“Oh no, look at you!” she would scold, her voice sharp but not unkind.

Her brows would knit together, tiny lines forming on her forehead, her lips pressed into a thin line as though she tried hard to look stern. But even then, I saw the softness in her eyes—love hidden behind every word, every scolding, every reminder.

Her advice was steady, like a drumbeat in the background of my childhood:

“You should study hard so you can have a good future.”

“Don’t rush into relationships—they’re only distractions.”

“And be kind to everyone, especially yourself.”

At the time, her words slipped past me like wind. Now, they echo louder than ever.

She was strong, even when sickness knocked on her door. She was hospitalized once, but she endured. I thought she always would.

But the worst part was that we never saw the heavy weight she carried. That night, there was a sign—but we ignored it. By morning, the house woke up, but she didn’t.

I still remember Grandpa’s trembling voice as he tried to wake her. His hands shook her gently, then desperately. But she was cold. She was blue.

It was June 11, 2020. The air felt heavy, the morning light dimmer than usual, as though the world itself bowed in sorrow. My mom shook me awake. Half-asleep, I stumbled outside to see neighbors and friends crowding our house, their shocked whispers filling the air like an eerie chorus.

“Mom, what happened? Why are there so many people? Mom… why are you crying?” I asked, my voice small, breaking.

But she couldn’t speak. Only her tears answered me.

She led me to Grandma’s room. As we drew closer, my knees weakened. I saw her feet first—still, unmoving. Then I saw her lying on the bed. My legs refused to move forward, and tears streamed down before I even realized.

“This can’t be real,” I whispered to myself. “She’s only sleeping. This is a dream.”

But it wasn’t. She was lifeless.

The house that once rang with her voice—“Did you eat already?” “Here, have some milk.” “There’s pandesal on the table, eat before you go.”—had fallen silent.

My chest filled with guilt and regret, as if I had swallowed stones. I realized too late that I only cherished her love when it was gone. I hated myself for being blind to it while she was alive. I couldn’t even say thank you or I love you.

Her funeral was held at her house. Relatives and friends filled the rooms, but the air was heavy, not with laughter, but with grief. I sat there, wishing endlessly.

I wish I could turn back time. I wish I could eat pandesal with her again. I wish I could hug her, feel her warm hands, see her smile. I wish I could tell her I love her. I wish I could beg her not to leave.

Now, five years have passed, but the grief still lingers like a shadow that follows me. Sometimes, when I miss her too much, my cousins and I visit her grave. I like to believe she understands—that her love, which asked for nothing in return, still wraps around us like an embrace.

Her house still stands, but it no longer glows with the same warmth. Without her, it feels dimmer, quieter. Yet in my heart, her love continues to shine—like the umbrella that shielded me from the storm, even when I never noticed.