“Because all of our departed are buried in places which are an airplane and a boat ride away, we make do with lighted candles, one for each who have gone on to the next life.

Candles blow me. At prayer, whether at home or at church, I am endlessly fascinated by how it dances in the wind. So does the malagkit rice, or the pilit as people from the Visayas call the glutinous variety of the staple. They’re magical to eat, certainly nutritious and fills the heart with contentment. I promised the mistress of the house that I will cook one for her when I get home from the office today in the exact same manner that people from our part of Leyte cook the sticky rice at this time of the year.

This time of the year has two versions. One relates to way back when Aunt Inday would drop by our house at the población on All Saints’ Day and ask who among her nephews and nieces would want some for the following day when everyone honors the dead with prayer, flowers, food and some merriment. As a boy, I always wanted the merriment part, of course, and Lola Iclay, when she was alive, would always caution that while some mirth is needed on a day as solemn as All Souls’ Day, it is better to spend the day at prayer, in reflection and certainly some dining. Some of the earliest I could remember relates to when she came down from the barrio and alighten from the tartanilla bearing a basketful of fruits, vegetables and good, old biko as we Visayans call the glutinous fare. At the taking of the hand, she was breathing out tuba, which wasn’t surprising because her marriage to my maternal uncle, probably an admission of her frustration over her incapacity to further the bloodline, had been a childless one. I had never seen Tiya Inday drunk and there never was an occasion when people talked of inappropriate behavior on her part. She wasn’t loud or unruly on those years when she visited the house and left us with a glutinous gift that she cooked by herself.

Tiya Inday was married to a marine engineer, one who had been through rough times at work and had been in ships that capsized in inland waters of the country. Neither would swear, not even when provoked. Some of us would fly off the handle quickly at the merest hint of slight or aggression, but not this childless couple who treated each other more like siblings and stay sober even in the heat of argument.

Version two relates to more recent years when I myself would offer to cook the glutinous rice on All Saints’ Day. The kids in my household would eat what I have prepared for them when they were young. These days they would not even look at it. They see me washing the rice carefully in the kitchen and use the spent liquid to water the orchids we keep in the shade by the gate. They could smell the rice cooking by the gas range nearby but would not mind it, I am sure, preferring to ignore the aroma of heated coconut oil wafting up the kitchen ceiling and out to the living room where they are either watching some show on TV or engage in digital combat with an ogre who knows Brazilian jiu-jitsu or some other fancy martial move. Just a few years back when they would mill around a battered 40-year old Volkswagen Beetle after treat-or-treating, they could not wait to dip their hands into the latik made more aromatic by anise or something and quarrel over who should be served first. Last year when I would merely watch the mistress of the house make the preparations but later contributed to the effort by riding the kudkuran for the all-important job of grating the tough coconut meat off its shell, no one would fight for the privilege of eating the first few grates of the coconut meat, which is actually both soft and sweet.

When the eating is done comes the period of prayer. Lola Iclay had a special prayer for the dead and she would lead in saying it. Such a prayer was rather long and some parts of it were sung, which is why I don’t remember any of it. I would sing it now if by some miracle I would suddenly remember, but miracles are hard to come by. These days the family honors the dead with prayer, of course, and because all of our departed are buried in places which are an airplane and a boat ride away, we make do with lighted candles, one for each who have gone on to the next life. That makes the front yard gate a well-lit place at night when the ghost of those who have not managed to transit successfully to wherever else they need to be can find their bearings.

Of course, one knows that is merely popular lore because religion teaches something else. I personally tell my departed to just go, like I did my mother when the family marched with the hearse that brought her to her final resting place. Did that, too, to the girlfriend of my college buddy who died of complications arising from improper natal care and paid for it with her life. Prayers, too, for this friend, Ramon, who would take a few thousand pesos worth of dried copra on a tricycle in my stead and get sideswiped by a minibus owned by a local politician who would threaten grieving relatives with bodily harm should they persist on suing the business for criminal recklessness and neglect.

I wasn’t there when my parents died. Neither was I present when a sibling lost her battle with cancer. Some of those other friends I’ve been close to just left and it always came as a shock that they had gone on to wherever it is that the dead go. It is always sad. For each of these instances, I offer a prayer that when my time comes, someone also sticks a candle some place and offer me a silent prayer as well. Perhaps that someone also gets home to a loving family who also knows how to cook malagkit. Amen.