12 July 2006, Wednesday 9:27 A GMT-08
by Barbara Jane Reyes

“Of us eleven, there are four of us still alive. Rosalia was 96 when she died. She is the mother of Teresing. Julio (he is in Mindanao) is one hundred and one years old, and he walks like a frog.” Papa gets up from the sofa to demonstrate. Legs spread wide, bends low at each knee. Spine virtually parallel to the floor. Hands behind the back, clasped. Takes a few steps, and laughs. Goes back to the sofa and sits. “At least Julio can still tie his own shoes. And he drinks one San Miguel Beer per day.” 

“Now Victor who was formerly in Australia is now Dean of the College of Engineering at U.P. Dominador is a Physics teacher in San Fernando. That is in La Union. Lakay Sipi is the father of Bienvenido. In Seattle, the Sabado family. Her grandfather is the sister of my father. My father is Concordio. On the Garcia side, the Bambaos, Sabados, Sorianos, Luadas, Martinezes. Lakay Sipi married Leona. Your Manong Gene’s grandfather was the brother of Concordio. My sisters’ surnames Jularbal, Madrid, Mendoza. I was told we had a sister who died in infancy. They told me her name was Tecla. Julio is the father of Jonathan who is the father of Arthur, who is a military man. You met him once when you were at U.P. Braulio is the father of Jonas, who is the father of Mary Jane. Doming and Bong are on the Adviento side. The Rabinas are Advientos. The grandchildren of Ambrosio II still called us cousins. One married a soldier. They lived in Malacañang Playground.”

My fingers are cramping; I am scribbling so furiously in my Moleskine. “Papa, I don’t know how to write all of this.”

“I know you won an award for your poetry. This is very good. You can write this.”

Papa is the youngest of eleven siblings. He turns 94 in two months. Tecla is not counted among these. These are their names, in birth order: Ildefonso, Trinidad, Rafael, Herminagilda, Rosalia, [Tecla], Ciriaco, Braulio, Julio, Alfredo, Pedro, Eustaquio (this is my Papa).

29 June 2007, Friday 9:27 A GMT-08

Eustaquio Garcia Pulmano, MD died last night. He fell into a coma, and he never climbed out.

He was ninety-four.

25 March 2007, Sunday 12:34 P GMT+08
by Barbara Jane Reyes

He shouts at the television. Manny Pacquiao is running for Congress. “This is why there is no progress in this country,” he declares. “A boxing super-featherweight champion with a third grade education thinks he may run for Congress.”

For three days, he contemplates the concept of sharing in its various contexts. We ask for translations, and this is how it is with him. Accuracy is important. Response is important.

He is ninety-four, and he is dying, and that is all there is to it.

There, we discuss irrigation. There are piglets, and squash vines. The farm, in the shape of a diamond. In the grooves between the rice paddies, slick mud. I bring him his walking stick. He holds my shoulders with both of his hands. I help him balance. I never knew how much taller than he I was. American grandchild. How beautiful is this which he has grown. Healthy seedlings, swaying.

There is sharing space, sharing food, sharing ideas. We forget we’d asked him in the first place. It has kept him awake, not knowing the proper translation.

It is an infection, and then the antibiotics make him sicker. It is not an infection, and so he discontinues the antibiotics. Then he is ambulatory, lucid. He is coherent once again.

It is an abscess, and then it is a tumor. It is in his liver, and now it is in his lungs. The MRI cannot make up its mind. Now it is not in his lungs. He is ninety-four. “Pabayaan mo na lang,” he says. He foregoes biopsy.

Now he cannot eat. We try, with rice, mangoes, smoked fish. The cans of liquid nutrition, he knows they are a good idea. He just cannot stomach it.

He cannot eat and now there is a tube needled into his arm.

“Nananaginip siya,” his nurse tells me. “May mga bata, naglalaro, sa tabi niya.”

I think we must be those children he dreams, my sister and I, playing at his bedside. There are no children here. It has been thirty years since our first trip back. 

“Ngayon? Natutulog pa siya?” It’s late. I think that it is harvest time on the farm. I think that what has been left fallow will now require fertilizer.

Now that he cannot eat, he cannot stand.

Nevermind the intravenous pain medications.

Now that he cannot eat, he cannot think.

Nevermind the hallucinations.

He is dying, and that is all there is to it.

Barbara Jane Reyes was born in Manila, Philippines, and raised in the San Francisco Bay Area. She is the author of GRAVITIES OF CENTER (Arkipelago, 2003), and POETA EN SAN FRANCISCO (Tinfish, 2005), for which she received the James Laughlin Award of the Academy of American Poets. Her author website is http://barbarajanereyes.com