Every Visit Was Love

I still remember the sound of her footsteps—slow, steady, familiar. Every time my grandmother came to visit from Tandag, I felt my heart leap with joy. I would rush to the door, shouting, “Nanay! Nanay’s here!”

She would smile the moment she saw me, her face lighting up like the sun after rain. “Aba, ni dako na man akong apo!” she’d say, laughing as she hugged me tightly. The faint scent of liniment and rice field air clung to her clothes, a smell I grew to love.

Her visits were never without gifts. Sometimes she’d hand me a small, fluttering bird in a cage. “Ganahan man ka ug pets, mao ni oh,” she’d say, her eyes twinkling as the bird chirped. I would squeal in delight, promising to take care of it as if it were the most precious thing in the world.

Other times, she’d pull a folded bill from her pocket and secretly slip it into my hand. “Ayaw ipakita sa imong mama ha,” she’d whisper with a wink. I’d nod eagerly, clutching the money like a secret treasure.

She didn’t have much, but she always made me feel like I had everything. Sometimes I’d ask, “Lola, di ba kapoy magbiyahe gikan sa Tandag?”

She’d laugh softly. “Kapoy gamay, pero mawala ra pag makita taka.”

When it was time for her to leave, I would follow her to the tricycle, not wanting her to go. She’d pat my head gently. “Sunod balik ko, naa napud koy dala para nimo,” she’d promise.

And as she rode away, I’d wave until she disappeared down the dusty road, holding onto her words like a lullaby—knowing that the next time she came, love would come with her, wrapped in the warmth of her hands and the softness of her smile.

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