A Memory I Wasn't Supposed to Have

Today marks the 33rd death anniversary of my Lolo. And as strange as it sounds, I feel like I remember him vividly.

I was born in July 1991. By the time my Lolo passed away, I wasn’t even a year old. A baby. Not even talking, walking, or forming memories, at least according to science.

But somehow, I have this scene in my mind.

I’m on his lap. We’re sitting in an open kubo right in front of our old house. It’s a quiet day. The air feels soft and warm. I can see the sidewalk just infront of us, and out of nowhere, a couple of pigs are being transported  from a house on our left to the exit alley of our Purok. The pigs are loud and I remember being startled, but safe. Because I was in my Lolo’s arms.

Now, every logical part of me knows I shouldn't remember this. Scientists call it infantile amnesia where babies don't form clear, retrievable memories before the age of two. But this one… this one has been with me for as long as I can remember. Not a dream. Not a story someone told me. Just… mine. Stored somewhere deep in the folds of my being.

Maybe it’s just a constructed image built from old family photos, but as far as I can recall, we didn’t have many, given our financial situation. Or maybe it came from stories told over meals and family gatherings. But when I asked my mom and grandmother about it, they said they had no idea about the specific memory. What they did confirm was the kubo I described. There really was a small structure like that in front of our old house. And the pigs? Our neighbor used to raise them as a business, and it was common to see pigs being transported when someone bought from them.

Or maybe just maybe it’s a spiritual memory. Something my soul tucked away before my brain had the ability to label it.

But I like to believe this: that in those few short months we had together, he made me feel so loved, so held, so safe that even if the memory itself wasn't meant to stay, the feeling did.

And maybe that's the kind of legacy we hope to leave behind, not grand stories or loud legacies, but the small, quiet comforts that last long after we're gone.

To my Lolo, whose arms I barely knew but somehow still remember, I carry you in me, even if I never got the chance to truly know you. Your lap was the first seat of safety I ever knew, and I’ll always be grateful for that single, sacred moment... real or not.