Heart-to-Heart

(*Nanay, in my language, means Mother. Tatay means Father. Anak means offspring, but it's also a term of endearment for one's child.)

How long has it been, Nanay?
It has been two months today, anak.

Do you remember the day I was born?
Yes, very clearly. It was a bright, sunshiny afternoon. The blinds were closed. The only light in the room was the one focused on me as I labored. It was a bittersweet day.

And the first time they brought me to you?
Yes. You were beautiful. You had very soft skin. You looked so delicate. But when I had you in my arms, you were wonderfully heavy and fit in them nicely. 

Did I look like Tatay or did I look like you?
Tatay and I had that conversation. It was two days before we found out you were stillborn. "Will you look more like your tatay or will you look more like me?" we wondered out loud.

But when I saw you, I knew. You had a little bit of both of us. Big feet and chubby cheeks looked like your father's. Tiny nose and dark brown hair looked like mine. Too bad we didn't see the color of your eyes. But we're sure they were lovely.

What else do you remember?
Lots of things. I joked and asked the nurse if you had chinky eyes. Everyone laughed. It was a genuine laugh. It dispersed the dark clouds above us. It made your birthday a little bit normal.

I remember I didn't hold you right away. I was bleeding too much. So your grandma held you. She sat on a chair and rocked you back and forth as she sobbed. She whispered in between her tears, "Oh you're such a beautiful boy."

Then finally I held you in my trembling arms. It made everything real to me. I felt a love so overwhelming and painful. I broke into a million pieces.

And when they undressed me for you?
I was in awe. My body nourished and carried an 8-pound you. A perfect little human being. I touched every inch of you - your hands, your feet, your head. I wanted to remember everything about you.

I thought to myself, "These are the feet that kicked me in the ribs at night," "This is the bum that kept sticking out on my left side," "This is the head that I touched near my heart." A true miracle of creation.

Then you had to let me go. Did you miss me after that?
Yes. I cried and called out your name many times. I will always miss you.

I remember you, too, Nanay.
Remember me?

Yes. I remembered how warm your body felt. I remembered the sound of your heartbeat. It was always soothing and reassuring. I remembered your touch as you spoke to me. I remembered your voice. If I hear it again, I will know it is you. You protected me for nine months. You gave birth to me and then held me.
Yes. You made me a mother. I'm both humbled and proud.

You remember? I would close my eyes and imagine you, imagining me.
I have imagined you often. How you would be as a colicky newborn. As a precocious toddler. As an inquisitive little boy. As an adventurous teenager. As a sensible young man. As a determined adult. And as a smart old man. But mostly, I imagined you sound asleep in my arms, breathing and healthy.

I remember your heart beating. And you would say my name.
I love your name, Kai. Do you remember when we bodysurfed in Hawaii? I was worried for you when the waves would hit my belly. I wondered if it frightened you. All that deafening noise and then the sudden stillness under the water.

I do. Why were you worried? I love the sound of the ocean. Remember how I danced inside you everytime I hear the waves. It was an amazing sound. You picked a good name for me, Nanay. I love it, too.
I know you do.

I'm sorry we had to say goodbye so soon.
I'm sorry, too. We didn't know your life would be too short. 

I remember your tears. I knew you loved me.
You died. It broke my heart. It changed my life. No mother should outlive her child.

I know, but I was with you for nine months.
And I will cherish the memories of those months until I die. It's just that I wanted to be with you longer.

But you could always remember.
Yes I could. Until the day we meet again.

Will you tell them about me?
Who could those be, my love?

My future brothers and sisters.
Of course. They will know someone came before them. A big brother who's as special as they are.

What will you tell them about me?
Everything. About you. About your birth story. About the things I learned from you.

And that you will never forget me?
Yes. And neither will they. I will give them my memory of you. They will love you even though they didn't meet you.

Listen, Nanay, I know what we'll do.
What's that?

You tell all those who come after me, and I'll tell all those who came before me.
What will we tell them, anak?

How we loved each other dearly.
I love you so very much, Kai.

I love you, too, Nanay.