Chapter XXXVIII: Conching , Part 2
The following day begins with a heavy atmosphere, even if the sun shines brightly over the fields of Caluipat. The rooster crows at exactly five-thirty in the morning, a sound that usually signals another day of chores and errands. But for Meric, Jonn, and Mark, this morning is different. It is not a day for the store, not a day for birthdays or feast preparations, but a day to confront a reality they never wanted to accept—that Conching is gone.
Meric wakes earlier than usual. She lies in bed, staring at the thin wooden ceiling, trying to recall once more the dream that came to her nights ago. The Islander slippers, the Chickenjoy bucket, and Conching waving goodbye from that mysterious red car. At that moment, it had felt random, even silly. But now, it feels like her subconscious had whispered a warning.
She dresses in a simple black blouse and jeans, and as she steps outside, she sees Jonn already fiddling with his green motorcycle. Mark, too, is there, yawning heavily but dressed in a white polo tucked neatly into his jeans, looking oddly formal for a motorcycle ride.
"Hoy, Mark," Jonn teases, smirking while tightening the bolts on his motorcycle handle. "You're dressed like you're going to defend your thesis, not attend a wake."
Mark rolls his eyes. "At least I look presentable. You look like you're going to the Tiendaan (Public Market)."
"Better than looking like a seminarian," Jonn shoots back, and for a moment, the heaviness of grief softens under their banter.
Meric, clutching her small bag, shakes her head. "Enough, you two. Let's not keep Lelang Conching waiting."
The ride to Fuerte begins. The motorcycle roars down the winding roads, passing rice fields that sway under the morning breeze. The green stretches endlessly, broken only by carabaos lazily chewing cud and farmers already knee-deep in the paddies. Despite the beauty of the landscape, Meric's thoughts wander back and forth between her dream and the woman who had been like a second mother to her.
When they finally arrive in Fuerte, the first thing that greets them is the sight of black and white tarpaulins hanging by bamboo poles, announcing Conching's death and wake. The bold letters spell her full name—Consuelo Quicho—followed by her dates of birth and death. Below, a picture of her in younger years smiles serenely, framed by flowers.
Cristobal is already there. He wears a crisp polo barong, his London-accented English slipping here and there as he talks to relatives. Beside him is his sister, who is welcoming neighbors arriving with dishes of pancit, and bottles of soda as their contribution to the wake. The atmosphere is solemn, yet filled with the kind of busyness typical of Filipino wakes—people talking, children running around, chairs being rearranged, and relatives constantly checking the food table.
Cristobal notices Meric, Jonn, and Mark as they approach. His face, weary from travel and grief, softens into a faint smile. "Ate Meric, Kuya Jonn, Mark," he greets, his voice low but warm. "Thank you for coming all the way here. She would have been so happy."
Meric hugs him briefly, feeling the weight of his sorrow. "Of course we'd come. She was family."
They walk inside the house, and there she is. Conching, lying in a white coffin, dressed in a simple cream dress with rosary beads entwined in her fingers. Her face looks calm, almost as if she is simply asleep, ready to wake at any moment and scold someone for forgetting to pay for food at a carinderia. Meric's throat tightens.
For a moment, she remembers the last time she saw her. Just a month ago, at the Provincial Hospital.
Meric and Jonn had walked into the hospital ward, the smell of antiseptic and the low hum of electric fans filling the air. There she was—Conching—frail and thin, seated on a wheelchair. Her once strong arms now rested limply on her lap. Yet her eyes, though tired, still carried that gentle glimmer of humor and love.
"Ay, Meric, Jonn" she had greeted, her voice weak but still recognizable. "Kumusta kayon? (How are y'all now?) Nangan kayon? (Did you eat?)"
Meric had laughed nervously. "We're not here to talk about me, we're here for you."
Conching had waved her hand dismissively. "Ok nak lang. Agpalaing nak pay. (I'm just ok. I need to get well.) But you—you should eat, or else your husband will get angry at me. Just kidding."
The siblings had laughed then, even though their hearts ached.
The flashback fades, and Meric blinks back tears as she looks at Conching's still face.
They sit on plastic monoblock chairs, the kind that always seem to be at every wake in the Philippines. Neighbors come and go, some whispering rosaries, others sharing stories about Conching's generosity.
Meric drifts into another memory, one much lighter.
It had been years ago. Meric was still in her twenties. She and Conching had gone to Plaza Jose foodcourt, the bustling center of Hermosa, where stalls sold steaming bowls of miki, goto, and pancit. The two of them had shared a table, slurping noodles and laughing at the noisy crowd.
Meric, feeling bold, had stood up after eating, ready to leave. But Conching, rising with surprising quickness, had grabbed her arm.
"Hoy! Nakabayad kan, Mer? (Have you paid for the meal, Mer?)"
Meric had blinked. "Uh... I thought you did?"
Conching had frowned. "Do I look like your banker? Go back to the counter!"
Everyone in the food court had turned to watch as Meric scurried back to the counter, red-faced but laughing.
The memory makes Meric chuckle softly, earning a curious look from Jonn.
For Jonn, his own memories rise unbidden. He recalls the time during Mercy's wake when Conching had arrived. She had been dressed simply, carrying only a small bag, but her presence had brought comfort. She had walked straight to Jonn, patted his back, and whispered, "Be strong. She would want you to be strong." Those words had anchored him during those painful days.
Mark, too, recalls his own experiences. For him, Conching was one of the sweetest grandmothers he had ever known, aside from Mercy. He remembers her habit of bringing Bulong Unas fish whenever she visited, how she would hand him chocolates wrapped in shiny foil, and sometimes even slip him a few pesos for snacks. For a child, those little gestures had felt like treasures.
As the hours pass, the three siblings find themselves whispering the same conclusion: "She was one of the most caring, beloved, and sweetest grandmas we ever had."
Days later, the funeral comes. Unlike Mercy, whose mass had been held at the Hermosa Cathedral, the Pablico family insists that Conching's funeral mass take place at Pardas Church. It feels fitting, they say, since she had lived most of her life in Pardas and had loved its people.
The procession begins at the bridge, where relatives and neighbors gather with flowers and candles. The coffin is carried slowly, the sun beating down but softened by the occasional breeze. Meric, Jonn, and Mark walk side by side, sweat running down their backs but their steps steady.
When they finally reach Pardas Church, its grandeur takes their breath away.
Unlike other churches, Pardas Church is unique. It is the home of the Patroness of Mariners, Our Lady of Hope—Apo Esperanza. The story of her image is legendary: once found floating on the South China Sea, she had been brought to Pandan Port. But later, sightings of her walking in a bamboo grove with the baby Jesus led to the construction of this massive church on that very site. Miraculously, though floods have ravaged Pardas many times, the church itself has never once been flooded.
Her image stands at the altar, Baby Jesus cradled in her right arm, while her left arm holds a chain linked to an anchor on the pedestal. Unlike the elaborate retablos of Guardino or Hermosa, this one is simple, dignified, and uncluttered.
Conching's coffin is placed at the front, directly before the altar. The priest, an elderly man with kind eyes, begins the mass.
His homily, though solemn, carries a message of hope.
"Kakabsat ko ken Cristo (My dear brothers and sisters in Christ)" the priest begins, his voice echoing gently in the high-ceilinged church. "Today, we gather not only to mourn but to celebrate a life. We celebrate the life of Consuelo—our sister, our tita, our Lelang, our friend. And how fitting her name is: Consuelo, which means comfort, consolation."
He pauses, glancing at the coffin.
"Indeed, Consuelo lived true to her name. She comforted those who were grieving, she helped those who were burdened, and she gave of herself so freely that she had little left for her own. Some of us remember her not as a wealthy woman, not as someone with possessions or titles, but as a servant of love, as a quiet worker in the vineyard of God. And is that not the highest calling? To serve without seeking reward, to love without asking for return?"
The priest continues, weaving stories of good deeds, drawing parallels between Conching's sacrifices and the biblical Consuelo—comforter, helper, consoler.
"In every home she entered, she became family. In every burden she lifted, she became a mother. And in every laughter she shared, she became a friend. This is why even now, though she lies before us, her presence will not be forgotten. For the love she sowed is eternal, and the seeds she planted live on in all of you."
His words pierce the hearts of everyone present. Meric grips Jonn's hand tightly, both their eyes wet.
When it comes time for the offering of flowers, Meric, Jonn, and Mark rise. They approach the coffin, each holding a white rose. Meric whispers a silent prayer as she lays her flower on top of Conching's still hands. Jonn follows, bowing his head, while Mark lingers a little longer, his lips moving silently as if talking directly to her.
After the mass, the coffin is carried once more, this time to the cemetery. They travel north of the poblacion, towards the boundary of Hermosa and Pardas. There, near Nagbingayan Laud, stands the Pardas Public Cemetery, its old Hispanic gate made of weathered bricks still visible even from afar.
The procession enters, weaving through tombstones until they reach the family plot. Conching's coffin is lowered into a tomb above her relatives, her final resting place.
As the last shovelfuls of cement are smoothed over, Meric whispers again, "Goodbye, Lelang Conching. Agyaman kami, kadagiti impapaay mo iti pamilia mi. (We thank you, for all things you have done to our family.)"
And just like that, the woman who had been a sister, a mother, a grandmother, and a friend is laid to rest. But her memory, her care, and her love remain etched in their hearts forever.