anitos no. 2: in memory of me

In a recurring dream, I am standing in front of a wide closet in the dark. The white doors give off a lilac glow as my eyes adjust to the absence of light. The stillness of the hour hints at a heavy presence within, waiting. 

I am in the playroom of a childhood home. The one with the pool on the corner lot (dad believed this placement gave us more lawn space). The one we moved into when Lilang came to live with us. 

~

I have never said this aloud, but I used to avoid Lilang’s room, tucked in a corner on the other side of the house. I feared her wrinkles, yellow teeth, hunched back, and frail hands — always gripping a rosary. I avoided all eye contact with her Jesus portraits and ornate Santo Niño doll. When she first moved in, my sister and I thought it would be fun to have a sleepover in her room. I was afraid to fall asleep because I held the distinct feeling of being watched. I preferred to talk to Lilang during the day. 

I was in the hospital room when she took her last breath: a sustained beeeeeeeeep, an unsettling silence, a final sip of air, and then the palpable absence when someone leaves the room. I remember looking down at my feet and feeling ashamed for wearing my sparkly, blue sandals and hot pink tank top that day. I remember the strong scent of lilies. 

~

I am at the doors, waiting. 

Suddenly, they slam open. My eyes widen and shoot up, catching a glimpse of a shadow crouched on the top shelf of the closet. Before I can react, Lilang lunges at me in her white nightgown — claws first and bearing sharp, white teeth. I always jolt awake, my cheeks wet with tears.

In another dream, I give her a small, pink pill. She takes one look at it and tosses it, telling me it is the wrong medication and that I am trying to poison her. 

~

I am looking for Lilang’s grave in a cemetery in New York, where she emigrated from the Philippines in the 70s. I wander for half an hour before calling my dad to repeat the directions to me. I arrive at a tombstone with his father’s, my Lilong’s, name: Quiterio. 

“But where is Lilang’s tombstone?” I ask my dad.

“...she is buried with your grandpa,” he said. 

We realize that the tombstone was never updated to reflect her name. 

I sit on the damp earth in front of the grave, cradling a bouquet of white lilies as I hum Lilang’s favorite tune “Dahil Sa Iyo.” I lay the flowers down, watching them wrinkle and drain of color and moisture — as if the ground is sipping from them. 

My name is an altar you erect every time you speak it. 

Constancia.