Letters of sympathy are the hardest ones to write. It is a pitiless endeavor. Give this blogger a note of thanks, a birthday or get-well-soon-you're-missed message to dash off anytime. The family's personal flag of mourning has been flying half-mast for sometime since the death of Chiqui Barretto Server early this month. It seems it will continue flying that way till past Easter. This morning my brother called from overseas to tell us his wife's 16-year-old nephew just passed on to the next life. Cause of death: leukemia.
As is my wont these days, I'm on this cleaning spree (deleting messages to free up space for incoming and outgoing mail). The exercise has proven therapeutic. But half an hour ago, I chanced upon this note I had emailed to my godmother and cousin Jane Pearl Server-Banzhaf. We were exchanging letters. She just lost her husband Hans. Two years later, she left us exactly 19 days after she turned 63.
If the thought isn't too irreverent, I can use this as template for similar letters that have to be written with more frequency as death is accepted as the living's constant companion. Meanwhile, hearts go on beating, a reminder this season that those who're left behind must keep on toasting in this manner: "Here's to life!"
Thu, Mar 16, 2006 at 4:25 PM
Dearest Ninang Jane,
First of all, it's okay to cry and cry. I remember suppressing my tears when my Dad died in January 1992, trying to put up a brave front before my siblings and Mommy, and it wasn't till June of that same year, on Father's Day, when my article on him came out in the old Daily Globe, that an avalanche of tears fell.
I must have been in sixth grade when Hans came into our lives. I
remember you and he standing on the lawn, you
introducing each of us to him, and we went up shyly to shake his hand.
He looked dazzlingly handsome, and you did make a fine pair.
Through the years I would see him striding in that determined way of his and learning how to drive in Manila's traffic and being as barumbado as the worst truck driver. I think he picked up some Filipino cuss words, too.
He was the one, at one post-Christmas reunion at Shorty and Lita's home, who yelled, after hearing the roll call of names of our nieces and nephews (Jongjong, Klengkleng, etc.), "Isn't there a Pekpek?" And Chiqui repeated the question while everyone roared in laughter.
I remember him as moody and sometimes masungit, too, but we all have our days. Like I said in my previous email, the man I married is in many ways like your dearly and recently departed (Hans ran the Banzhaf residence with German efficiency). My pursuit of fine arts wouldn't be possible without Rolly taking upon himself the bulk of housekeeping chores that I must confess bore and depress me, if I have to do them all the time.
I know the coming days and weeks will be difficult, but your friends and relatives will keep in touch through text and email to comfort you. Besides, you have all those beautiful children and grandchildren to remind you of what you and Hans had brought forth to this world.
Love,
B
Photo of Jane from the collection of one of her three daughters
