It’s New Year’s Day again. The world feels loud—fireworks, resolutions, celebrations. But for me, this day is quieter now. It’s heavy. It’s your birthday, Nanay. And you’re not here.
I’ve been thinking about you all month. December always brings you closer, like the days are counting down to something I can’t hold onto anymore. And now that January 1 is here, the weight of it settles in. The celebrations outside feel distant, almost like I’m watching them through a window. Because for me, this day will never just be about the new year—it will always be about you.
I wish I could remember you better. Some days, I try to picture your face, but it’s like looking through a fogged-up window. I hate that. I hate how time keeps taking more pieces of you, leaving me with bits that don’t fit together the way they used to. Your laugh—it was soft but full of life, wasn’t it? Or was it lighter? Your eyes… I know they lit up when you smiled, but the details are gone.
It scares me how memory fades. No one warns you about that part of grief, about how losing them isn’t just a moment but something that happens again and again.
I think a part of me still doesn’t know how to live in this world without you in it. You were this steady, quiet presence that anchored so much more than I realized. And now that you’re gone, it feels like everything else has shifted.
I’m not sure if I’m honoring you the way I should. There’s no tradition, no ritual that feels big enough or worthy enough. Sometimes I just sit and think about you. Sometimes I don’t. Does that mean I’m forgetting you? Or does it mean I’m carrying you with me in ways I don’t fully see?
I wish I could say I’ve figured it out, but I haven’t. All I know is that I miss you. And I think I always will.
Happy birthday, Nanay. I love you. I hope wherever you are, you know that.
