Four years old and on my first day of kindergarten, I whispered to you by the classroom door, "Ma, don't come with me - I don't want the other kids to think I still need my mother."

You told me that, at that moment, you felt so immensely proud - by little smart ass me saying that, you were on the right track to raising kids who, one day, wouldn't need you anymore.

We all knew how to do chores (albeit I was a lot lazier than everyone else) and think on our feet. We were well-versed in the art of speaking up and fending for ourselves. But you made sure we were equally competent in making sure the people around us weren't getting stiffed in the process.

A part of me thinks you being okay with us studying, working and living away from home was a dress rehearsal to prepare us for the day that you would be in a place no airplane can land on, no matter how high it flies.

That day was a little less than two months ago.

And if, wherever you are, you're wondering how we're doing - I suppose we're doing okay.

As I type this, I'm realizing now why you constantly said "Okay raman ko" - it was ambiguous enough to assure other people while simultaneously hiding the fact that, inside, you were a tight ball of fragile emotions, jumbled thoughts and unspeakable pain.

In the past weeks, the number of times I've said "I'm okay" is exactly the same number of times I've cried in the weirdest of places - next to strangers in airplanes, buses and tricycles, alone at McDonalds, in front of my boss or just at work when no one's watching, while trying to think of how to cook shrimps, after unlocking my phone and not seeing your half request-half reminder to call home more often, after having a laugh-inducing video call with Papa and Manang or arguing with Manong and Yoyo over the most trivial of things - not exactly a perfect picture of strength, eh?

I don't remember what my point was when I started to write this.

Maybe it was that we'll always need you - because we always will - or that time doesn't really make it better no matter what anyone says (because you still teared up when I asked you a question about Tata and, at that time, it had been twenty five years since he'd died) or that I finally understand your 'okays' meant you were enduring your burdens because, as you constantly said, a person is only given as much hardship as they can handle.

Or, to put it simply, maybe I'm just trying to say I miss you.

Because I really, really do.