November 2 found the three of us, me, my mother, and my father, walking slowly through San Pedro Memorial Park. The air felt different there. Softer. Heavier. Like the day itself knew we were visiting old souls.
This was where my Lolo and Lola rest, the parents of my mom. And for a few hours, time behaved strangely. The present loosened its grip, and the past came forward politely, asking to be remembered.
We spoke to them the way you do when words are no longer performative. No need to impress heaven. Just updates, quiet confessions, half-smiles between sentences. We reminisced about days when they were still with us, when meals were fuller, laughter louder, and life felt held together by their presence.
“The people we love never really leave us; they simply change the way they show up.”
As we stood there, memories stacked themselves gently in my mind, how they brought color into ordinary days, how their joy lived in small gestures, how family used to feel simpler back then. Not perfect. Just… different.
What surprised me most that day wasn’t the remembering.
It was the honesty.
Somewhere between stories and silence, we talked about things families don’t usually say out loud, our finances, our realities, our worries. The kind of conversations people label “too sensitive” or “too controversial,” even among relatives.
And here’s the uncomfortable truth I’ve learned: blood alone doesn’t guarantee trust.
Not everyone who shares your last name will carry your truth gently. Some people listen to respond. Some listen to judge. Some listen to keep score.
I don’t say this with bitterness. I say it with clarity.
The only person I fully trust in my life is my brother. And that awareness, earned through time, not drama has taught me how carefully trust should be placed.
“Family can love you deeply and still struggle to hold your truths.”
And that’s okay. It doesn’t make us broken. It makes us human.
A Letter for Family, Seen and Unseen
To my Lolo and Lola,
And to the family still walking this world.
Thank you for the love that shaped us long before we understood it. Thank you for the lessons passed down quietly in habits, in humor, in resilience.
To those in heaven, you may be gone from our sight, but your fingerprints remain everywhere. In how we argue. In how we forgive. In how we survive.
To those still here, I hope we remember that even happy families carry struggles behind closed doors. That laughter and hardship often live under the same roof. That loving each other doesn’t mean life will be easy, it means we keep choosing each other anyway.
We are doing the best we can with what we were given. And sometimes, that is more than enough.
Lessons the Day Left With Me
That visit taught me a few lasting truths:
“Joy doesn’t disappear when a person is gone, it becomes memory.”
Another one came quietly, but firmly:
“Trust is not inherited. It is built.”
And perhaps the most grounding lesson of all:
“Living life to the fullest doesn’t mean living without struggle. It means living honestly, grief, gratitude, and all.”
That day at San Pedro wasn’t heavy.
It wasn’t sad.
It was grounding.
A reminder that we are stitched together by those who came before us, navigating life the best we can, laughing when possible, grieving when needed, and still always moving forward.
Catching life where it meets memory.
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