Photo caption: One Halloween on Lānaʻi, the school offered face painting before the evening’s trick-or-treat festivities. My cousin became Rambo, and for some reason I decided to be a clown. I’ve hated clowns for as long as I can remember. Looking back now, I’m just grateful we had moments like these together.
Death has a way of reminding you what family means.
In the past year, I’ve lost two people. First was my aunt, someone I always considered my second mom. More recently, we lost my uncle. He wasn’t my uncle by blood, but after spending decades as part of the family my maternal grandparents built around them, labels like “in-law” stopped mattering a long time ago. He was simply family.
Whenever someone passes, I find myself thinking about my own dad. It’s been more than twenty years since he died. Time has blurred parts of his face and softened some of the memories, but grief doesn’t really disappear. It just settles somewhere deeper. Most days it stays quiet. Then something happens - a familiar story, an old photograph, or the loss of another family member - and it rises to the surface again as if no time has passed at all.
After hearing the news, I spent the rest of the day sitting with it. At first, I didn’t really know what to think. I was just shocked. As the day went on, memories of my uncle started finding their way back. I could picture him at family parties, laughing with everyone else and catching up with relatives he hadn’t seen in a while. Holidays came to mind too... those gatherings where the house somehow made room for every aunt, uncle, cousin, and kid. They’re ordinary memories, the kind you never think twice about while you’re living them, but somehow they’re the ones that stay with you the longest.
Moving to the mainland made it harder to see family as often as I once did. The last time I saw both my cousin and my uncle was at my aunt’s funeral. My uncle and I only had a brief moment together. We exchanged a quick hello, asked how life had been treating each other, and before we went our separate ways, I told him to take care. Neither of us knew it would be the last time we’d see each other.
I called my cousin later that evening. He’s the same cousin I spent so much of my childhood with. We were the ones always getting into trouble together, finding ways to be just mischievous enough to keep the adults on their toes. We hadn’t spoken since my aunt’s funeral, but it didn’t matter. The conversation picked up almost exactly where we had left off.
I offered my condolences, shared a few words of encouragement, and mostly listened as he talked about his dad. Not just about losing him, but about the little things that made him who he was. The stories came naturally, the way they often do after someone has passed. It’s funny how grief has a way of introducing you to memories you’ve never heard before.
found myself listening just as much to what was happening around him as we talked. Children were running through the house, shouting as they played. Adults carried on several conversations at once. I could hear dishes clinking in the kitchen, chairs scraping across the floor, and laughter drifting in from another room.
For a moment, it almost didn’t sound like a house mourning a death. It sounded like a family gathering. Then I remembered where he was. The whole family had come together to keep my uncle company through the night. They would stay until dawn, praying, talking, eating, telling stories, and simply being present. It was the beginning of a tradition that generations of Filipino families have practiced before us.
I never questioned these traditions growing up because they were simply what our family did. When someone dies, the house doesn’t become quiet. It becomes full. Family arrives carrying trays of food. Neighbors stop by to pay their respects. Candles remain lit throughout the wake as a sign of remembrance, and every evening loved ones gather to pray the novena, continuing for nine nights in what we know as the pasiyam. These aren’t just religious rituals. They’re an invitation to be together.
For many Ilocano families, remembrance doesn’t end after the funeral. Families gather again on the ninth day, after a month, and again on the first anniversary. The prayers continue. The meals continue. The stories continue. It’s a reminder that grief isn’t something we finish in a day. We carry it together over time.
I’ve realized these customs aren’t only for the person we’ve lost. They’re just as much for the people left behind. They give us somewhere to gather when home suddenly feels empty. They fill silence with prayer, stories, coffee, laughter, and tears. They remind us that even when someone leaves this world, the family they helped build continues to show up for one another.
Listening to my cousin, I wasn’t just hearing another wake. I was hearing generations. The sounds coming through the phone were probably no different from what my grandparents heard when they were young. They were the same sounds my parents grew up with. Maybe even the same sounds that filled our own home when my father passed away more than twenty years ago.
As our conversation came to an end, I couldn’t stop thinking about the children laughing in the background. Years from now they probably won’t remember who brought the pancit or who stayed until sunrise. They may not remember every prayer that was said. But they’ll remember that everyone came. They’ll remember that when someone in the family died, no one had to grieve alone.
Maybe that’s why these traditions have endured for so long. Not because they make death any easier, but because they remind us that family doesn’t disappear when someone dies. If anything, it draws closer together. Even in our deepest grief, we gather around one another, carrying memories together until, little by little, they become easier to hold.
This story is for those who came before me.
Rest in paradise.
Inang Baket
Tatang Lakay
Lola Bada
Lolo Dionicio
Auntie Flor
Dad
Uncle Serg
Uncle Rudy
Manong Bobby
…and to everyone else in our family whose stories deserve to be remembered.
As long as we continue speaking your names, telling your stories, and gathering together, a part of you will always remain with us.