When icons leave us

There’s a peculiar ache that settles in the heart when an icon passes away. It is a quiet, personal grief that washes over even those of us who never met them, never shook their hand, never exchanged a word.

Their faces are not in our family photo albums, yet their absence feels like a hole in our personal world. This feeling was especially palpable around the recent Lenten season, as the world quietly mourned global and local icons — Pope Francis, Nora Aunor, Pilita Corrales and Hajji Alejandro — whose departures came one after the other like a sorrowful procession.

When figures like them pass away, the pain cuts across generations, faiths and social classes.

Their lives, after all, were never confined to their own. Icons become fixtures in our collective memory, their voices and faces stitched into the soundtrack of our lives. We mourn not just them, but also the chapters of our lives that they accompanied.

Take Pope Francis, for instance. Though a leader of the Catholic Church, his moral reach extended beyond religious lines. He spoke softly but acted boldly on issues like climate change, compassion for the poor, and human dignity. For many, especially Christians observing Lent, his passing added a profound weight to an already reflective season. It felt symbolic, almost biblical: a shepherd leaving his flock just as the world contemplated the life, death, and resurrection of Christ.

Closer to home, the loss of Nora Aunor and Pilita Corrales stirred emotions rooted not just in their artistry but in their place in the Filipino identity. Nora Aunor was more than a superstar; she was a mirror to the ordinary Filipino — the small-town dreamer who dared to imagine a better life. She represented resilience, authenticity, and a deeply Filipino kind of hope.

Pilita Corrales, meanwhile, was our “Asia’s Queen of Songs,” her voice a familiar presence that filled homes on Sunday radio programs, weddings, and karaoke nights. Their deaths were not just losses to the entertainment world; they were partings with the cultural mothers and sisters who sang us through heartbreaks, victories, and childhood Sundays.

And then there was Hajji Alejandro, the original “Kilabot ng mga Kolehiyala.” His smooth ballads were time machines to 1970s Manila, conjuring up images of moonlit dances, jeepney rides and simpler days. Losing him felt like closing the door on a cherished era of Pinoy music, one that many thought would never truly fade.

Why do these deaths weigh so heavily on us, especially when they cluster around meaningful seasons like Lent? Part of it is timing: Lent is a period of reflection on mortality, sacrifice, and renewal. The passing of icons during this season forces us to confront the impermanence of even the people we thought would “always be there.” It reminds us that no song, sermon, or smile is immune to the inevitable passage of time.

Yet the grief also affirms something deeply human: the need to belong, to remember, and to be moved. Icons shape our world, and when they leave it the world feels ever so slightly unfamiliar — as if a street we’ve walked all our lives suddenly lost its name. Mourning them is not just about honoring their lives, it’s about holding onto the parts of ourselves that they helped shape.

And so, even as the world turns and new voices rise, the echo of those who’ve left us lingers — a quiet, powerful reminder that some legacies never really die.

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