My First Little Girl

Love and grief. They are tricky old friends that creep up on you and overwhelm you. And once you're clasped in their tight embrace, you can't even tell one from the other. 

My cousin Baby Lyn left us yesterday--left all she loved and who loved her bereft and somehow uncomprehending. Why so soon? Why her? Why not a miracle for our Baby Lyn when every day miracles happen to so many others? I held on to that, you know. I refused to consider there would be no miracle. She was someone who could do everything, after all, and I had faith in her and in the infinite mercy of what's beyond. Even now as I struggle to put words to this sorrow to understand it, I feel like it's futile. Why write about her now when she can no longer read it? Why even try when she was more than what puny words can paint? If I feel this anguish how much more the people who lived, worked, laughed, loved with her all these years? 

I first met Baby Lyn when she was a little more than a baby. She was a chubby bundle of fair skin, round eyes and straight wispy brownish hair. The first time she was brought to Maasin to spend Christmas (or was it summer) with the whole clan, we--my sister and I--adored her right away. Oddly, we can't remember many specific anecdotes about this pretty little cousin. Such is not the case with her older brother Mikmik and her younger sister Tooting--characters about whom I could probably fill a tome of misadventures. Looking back, Baby Lynn, the middle child, was the perfect foil for her two daredevil siblings. She was the mediator, the little mom, the responsible little girl who always did what she was told and took care of her frisky little sister besides. If there was one thing that Baby Lyn outdid her siblings as a child, it was crying. Was it her Tatay Kim who called her Long Play? Because she could wail like a long-playing album! I remember once when she woke up to find that Tio Kim had already left for Ormoc and that she had missed saying goodbye, she stood by one of our jalousie windows forlornly gazing at the gate outside and cried her heart out... very loudly... for hours. No one could console her or stop her. 

Growing up, she spent almost every summer with us in Maasin. My sister and I absolutely loved taking Baby Lyn around with us, showing off our cousin from the city who had such fair skin, beautiful face, and wonderful manners! I, the first grandchild of the clan, was easily ten years older than her, so she became my live doll, my uncomplaining mannequin, my first little girl. With my younger sister as assistant (I was very bossy), I would dress her up in my blouses which would become a dress on her, make up her face, hang all sorts of blings on her ears and neck, and parade her around the house. We'd have an impromptu fashion show with her and the also-dressed-up-heavily-made-up Tooting as catwalkers. This was ages before the smartphone and we did not own a camera then, so the pictures I have are all in my mind, etched in my heart, blurring with age. 

Baby Lyn worshipped the sea when she was growing up. What city dweller did not? We used to take her and Tooting to the reclamation area to look for seashells and starfish and sea urchins. We'd pile the girls on bikes for a swim at Pugaling beach--Baby Lyn riding with me; Tooting with Sonata, my sister. Once, we stayed too long on the beach and my sister and I let them swim under the sun far too much. The two were horribly sunburnt! Our grandmother was absolutely horrified at what looked like first-degree burns on each girl's back! It was horrendous! The poor little things suffered all through the night. To this day I can still recall their agonized moans and my feelings of guilt. To my defense, I was just a kid then, too. For days, even with her own painful back, I remember Baby Lyn taking care of her younger sister's burnt skin, putting ointment on it every now and then, making sure the burnt skin didn't stick to her shirt. Clearly, she was more responsible than I ever was! 

Yeah, those were the summers in a small town when there was never any shortage of fun adventures for growing girls. There was Tinubdan where our Nanay Titang would take us to swim. It was always a treat splashing around in the deep cool creek with our San Joaquin cousins! There was the plaza we would stroll in and hang out sometimes. There were the stories I would tell which Baby Lyn, being the kind doting cousin that she was, would always have time to listen to, hanging on my every word. And there were the basketball games every night in lieu of today's bars or Netflix or Dota. Of course, Baby Lyn became muse to one of the mini-midget teams! That one was born a muse with her angelic face, I tell you. It was another excuse for me to dress her up in makeshift grown-up clothes and my Nanay's make-up. 

The summer visits stopped when they became older. Years passed and each one of us led different lives in different cities. We would get together only during funerals or big family events. Baby Lyn, the responsible, kind and loving little girl became Mel, the responsible, kind, loving and funny accomplished woman.  She found the love of her life who was devoted to her until the end. We had kids. I gave the name to her only daughter. But I had the very first one, and wow, did Baby Lyn and Tooting dote on my baby girl! And they never failed to send Christmas gifts to her every year, too. Over the years, Baby Lyn and I would sometimes see each other when I dropped by Cebu on my way home from Indonesia. We would exchange messages sporadically, and years would even pass without any, for we had cultivated different friendships and pursuits. In the past two years when she began fighting cancer with her usual kick-ass courage and humor, our messages were oftener. I thought I had an idea what she was up against. I could not bear to think of her in so much pain. Why then can't I stop crying from the moment Tooting told me that Baby Lyn's gone? Why do I keep listening to her voice messages and rereading our chats as if doing so will turn her death into a lie and conjure her smiling, sassy self in front of me? Why is it so unthinkable to shake off this grief that seems to cling to me wherever I turn? 

As I write about Baby Lyn and parts of the childhood we shared, I slowly begin to understand my overwhelming sorrow. Those recollections of her are not just memories belonging to a different time and to different persons from what we've become. No. Those summers was where love began and never ended-- no matter the years, the distance, the difference. 

Love and grief, they go hand in hand. I have always been proud of her; why did I not tell her? I can't stop weeping because she has always been a part of my faith in the family; a huge part of the childhood innocence that I cherish; a reason why I still believe in goodness and courage. I have always thought she'd be there and everything would be all right. She had so much life and love it was enough to make one feel safe while listening to her. I love Baby Lyn--my sweet, caring, indomitable, forever-there cousin. 

I grieve because I can't bear to let her story end. And it won't. The people who love her won't let that happen.

Baby Lyn in Tinubdan (photo grabbed from Ejay's video)