It came to me a few nights ago, in my friend’s house, while in the middle of a birthday party/chugfest.

How she came to be mentioned in a rather complicated conversation about Gloria, PBB and a host of other things still escapes me. I heard her name, blinked and felt a knife strike deep into my gut.

Ouch.

Four years and she still has that effect on me.

How unfortunate.

I should have forgotten her completely by now, but certainly, there’s been quite a glitch in the system. Or maybe I’ve just been avoiding her memories all this time.

Whatever.

The mention of her name struck a rather nasty chord, bringing back a dozen of memories I’d rather bury in my mental cemetery — thank you very much. But now that everything’s been unearthed, I can’t just go back to exorcising them all again, short of committing myself to selective amnesia.

She left without a word four years ago, not even a warning. I knew she wasn’t happy, knew my new friends didn’t get along with her (or she didn’t get along with them). I knew she had problems. I knew she could have used a helping hand.

Not that I hadn’t offered. But she was too stubborn, insisting on stringing all her baggage along all by herself.

And I, of course, lacked patience and nice language. All I could express at that time was anger, though I could never really bring myself to hate her. Never. Not even now. Not even after she replied to one of my sms rudely, claiming not to know me.

I still blame myself, partly, for not being a friend enough.

The mention of her name reopened a lot of things. I knew, right there and then, that I would have to find her and end everything once and for all.

She may have forgotten me. She may have never thought of me as a friend at all. She may not want to see me or have anything to do with me ever again, but this much she owes me.

I want to know. I need to know. All those years and I never even knew if she liked me at all. She was just there, hovering, not really letting me in. And still I hung around, just like the way I hang around her memories today.

This much she owes me.

So I google her name and a random string of things that could lead to her at least. I text a former friend who could be the only remaining link to her. I’m doing every goddamn thing I can, because it’s been four years and it’s about time she gave me peace. I’m blogging about her, hoping that someone in this universe would actually know her and pass the message.

AZALEA NAPENAS: I need to talk to you.

May 5, 2006 - the first anniversary of my grandmother’s death.

A year ago, we were in some mall I can’t even remember now, looking for a specific brand of jelly to bring my grandmother. We had no idea she was headed for the hospital to get checked — it seemed she needed a new catheter. I was there the entire time, but can barely remember everything that happened. Things are a bit hazy — quite surreal — even though it’s been a year. The passage of time didn’t really help much. I remember I was driving when my aunt received a call saying my grandmother had nearly fainted in the van carrying her to the hospital.

I can remember not panicking, despite the fact that my grandmother was on her way to the emergency room. Somehow, I knew it was all over, even before I reached the hospital. I remember waiting outside the emergency room, with my uncle blowing his top over some security measure the hospital had imposed. I was catatonic as they grimly announced my grandmother’s blood level dropping by the minute. It would not be long, they kept saying while wringing their hands. I just sat there, worrying about the ants. They had come from the soda can beside the guard’s desk.

Was it two or three hours before a room was found for my grandmother? I can’t really remember. I remember hating my uncle’s melodramatic complaints and murderous threats. I remember thinking that he was too engrossed in theatrics to remember that my grandmother’s life was hanging by a thread. I remember going ahead to the room, waiting for my grandmother to be wheeled in. I stood there stupidly, watching the hospital staff carry her to the bed.

I saw her heave a sigh and decided she was still alive.

I believed she was alive, though I knew it would not be long. I remember leaving with my father to buy bottles of water from the drugstore right outside the hospital. By the time we got back, the nurses were fussing all over my grandmother. She was gone they said, probably right after she was lifted on to the bed. I sat down, incredulous. I saw her breathing. I saw her, and she was alive. Just yesterday, she had been sitting on her bed as she always did, listening to us banter and chat while quietly nodding her head several times. How could she be gone?

I would be a liar to say it wasn’t expected. She had been operated on a few months before, and she wasn’t exactly young anymore. Knowing it, however, didn’t make things any easier. It was just as painful, just as excruciating as thinking about it today is.

I was in denial, vigorously shaking my head and persisting that the doctors had not even presented a flat line from the ECG yet. It’s not confirmed. There’s still hope. I was adamant, calm yet unshakeable in my belief that my grandmother was still alive. The doctors came with confirmation a few minutes later.

I couldn’t cry. I refused to. I felt a lump rise in my throat, but refused to let tears fall. I couldn’t speak either. Suddenly, it seemed that the world had gotten tired of spinning and just stood on axis, grieving the death of a loved one. I walked around the room like a zombie, repeatedly scrutinizing every single corner of the room. I walked past her several times, trying not to stare too much. I couldn’t look at her. A minute ago I was staring at her, and now I could barely glance at her lifeless body.

What came next, I can barely remember. I remember my mom asking me to call my cousin to tell him the news. It was a task I couldn’t bear. I could not find the words to tell him what had happened. In my heart, I insisted she wasn’t dead, just sleeping. I couldn’t bring myself to speak. I choked — terribly. How do you tell someone else that a part of you had died?

Everything on that day may have been a blur, but there are certain memories etched deep into my mind — probably into my very soul. It was raining when she was brought to the crematorium. I couldn’t watch and kept my eyes on the floor. I think a dam broke that day, breaking down to shreds the walls blocking my feelings. I remember staring at the tiny box in the temple — my grandmother’s new home.

It’s interesting how one can seem to move on without really doing so. I can laugh and joke now. I can go to work and pursue my studies. I can have fun with friends and family. Despite it all, every single thing that reminds me of her cuts deep like shards of glass. I cannot forget her. I cannot forget her. I cannot forget her.

There are days when being reminded of her becomes too painful to bear. I guess part of me had died with her that day.

Does she see me from wherever she is right now? Does she remember me at all? Will we ever see each other again?

I suppose moving on really is a hoax. You never really forget. Pain is forever, and time never really dulls it at all. Ten years from now, I know my grandmother’s passing will be just as painful for me as it is today. There are things you forget, and there are things you carry with you with the rest of your life.

Not one moment of our time together shall be forgotten. There is just too much to remind me of her, too much pain to deal with sometimes. With reminiscence comes pain, but I do not pray for deliverance. I will never be able to accept her death. I will never be able to stop grieving. I will never be able to move on. These are not the things that I pray for. I do not need deliverance from this misery. I welcome the pain of remembrance. I welcome it! Lift not the grief in my heart — I do not need healing.

All I need are the memories of our life together, and the realization that death does not lessen the love I have for her.

She will be with me forever.