This weekend, we observe All Saints’ Day and All Souls’ Day — a time when cemeteries bloom with chrysanthemums and candles, and families gather to honor those who have gone before us. It is a uniquely Filipino tradition: to spend the day not in quiet mourning, but in reunion. Children run between tombstones, elders share stories over potluck lunches, and the air hums with both laughter and memory. It is grief softened by togetherness, love expressed through presence.

This season always brings reflection, and this year marks the second death anniversary of my father. Two years — and yet, at times, it feels like only yesterday. His absence still echoes in quiet moments: A song he loved, the smell of his hair pomade (I keep a stick on my vanity), his favorite movie on the TV.

This year has also been one of loss beyond my own family. My best friend passed away after a battle with cancer. The father of a close friend died following a long illness. And recently a 19-year-old — her life full of promise — was gone too soon, a painful reminder of the silent battles so many face. Different lives and different stories, but all leave behind the same lesson: That life, in all its beauty, is heartbreakingly brief.

There is a poem that goes: “Closed eyes can’t see the white roses,
Cold hands can’t hold them, you know;
Breath that is stilled cannot gather
The odors that sweet from them blow.
Death, with a peace beyond dreaming,
Its children of earth doth endow;
Life is the time we can help them,
So give them the flowers now!”

My father embodied the very phrase “Give them the flowers now.” Not just with the flowers he would bring into our home from our garden, the roses for birthdays or anniversaries, or the orchids he would have ready to welcome my mother home from a trip. He was generous with blooms of affection, expressed in his actions.  He never hesitated to give to anyone who asked, be it a stranger or a charitable cause.  

He was generous not only with gifts, but with words. He believed love should never be left unspoken. He always had something kind to say about others — compliments spoken sincerely, never sparingly. He called me at least once a week, and each call would end with him asking after my husband, children, and in-laws, always concerned about everyone’s well-being. His love was tangible — in affectionate cards written by hand every Christmas and birthday, and later when his handwriting began to falter, he would dictate his message to his secretary who would type them out.