Chapter XXXI: The House Without a Light, Part 1
The morning after Palm Sunday feels heavier than the night before. The air inside the wooden house at Caluipat is still and thick, as if even the wind refuses to enter. Meric sits quietly on the sofa, staring at the glass coffin resting at the center of the sala. Mercy's face looks peaceful, her features softened by the dim light of the candles flickering on both sides.
Meric's chest tightens. No matter how long she looks, she still cannot believe it—her mother, the stronghold of the family, the woman who never let anything crumble, is lying still. Cold. Silent.
She picks up the small prayer book from the table. Slowly, she makes the sign of the cross. Her lips murmur the first words, but her thoughts wander away, back to the memory of yesterday.
It was just after lunch when the Ina Poonbato devotees arrived. Usually, they would gather at the Anacleto Mansion for prayer services. But this time, in a decision that felt both sudden and sacred, they came directly to Caluipat to pray for Mercy.
The sala had been rearranged—chairs lined against the wall, candles standing tall, and the coffin resting beneath the image of Sto. Cristo Milagroso (The Crucified Christ). Elric, Meric, Jonn, Rico, Mark, and Elric's wife joined in. The devotees filled the house, their white and red attire reflecting the glow of candles.
At the center was Candy, Mercy's closest friend among the group. Candy held her prayer book firmly, her voice clear as she began the rosary. The murmurs rose and fell, filling the house with rhythm. Each "Hail Mary" sounded like a soft knock on heaven's gate.
But the moment that etched itself deepest into memory came after the final sign of the cross. Candy cleared her throat, and instead of closing the prayer service, she lifted her voice in song:
"Laglagipem kadi,
Ooh, Dios Mi,
Daytoy a Kabsat Mi,
Nga Illualloanmi,
Kaasim ken ayat,
Apo, ipaaymo,
Kaasim ken ayat,
Iiburay mo.
Oh Remember Thee,
Ooh Dear God,
Our Beloved Brethren/Sister,
That we pray for.
Mercy and Love,
Lord, Giveth Thee,
Mercy and Love,
Share-th thee."
(Laglagipem Kadi, or translated as "Remember Thee", is an Ilocano version of 'Nearer my God to Thee', typically sung during service towards the dead.)
The Ilocano hymn floated through the room, carrying both sorrow and grace. Mark, unable to contain himself, broke into tears. He clung tightly to Meric's arm, burying his face against her shoulder. Meric's own tears flowed silently, matching those of her brothers. Even Rico, who had spent years hiding his emotions, wept openly. Elric's wife dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief, overwhelmed by the rawness of the moment.
Candy's voice trembled at times, but she kept singing until the last line faded into silence. It was then that the family felt as though Mercy herself was listening, smiling, and blessing them.
Meric blinks, shaking off the memory. She feels a soft nudge at her feet. Looking down, she sees Raffy—the little Shih Tzu puppy gifted to Mark for his birthday. The pup presses against her toes, tail wagging gently, as if to comfort her.
"Arimunding-munding ni Mamang," she whispers, repeating Mercy's fond nickname for the dog. A bitter-sweetness rises in her chest.
The day continues with a strange rhythm. Neighbors drop by with whispered condolences. Candles burn low and are replaced. Prayer cards and books, neatly arranged on a rack next to the candles. But the weight of loss hangs in the house like a curtain.
Since it is Holy Week, the sound of the Lectio (The Ilocano version of the Pabasa)—echoes faintly from neighboring houses and on the radio. The chant floats through the air, mingling with the stillness of grief. It reminds the family that the season of penance and reflection has arrived, though for them, the timing feels cruelly personal.
The Bensmert Store, normally buzzing with buyers and chatter, remains shut. Its doors are padlocked. Everyone who passes by knows why. The absence of business feels like another candle snuffed out in Mercy's memory.
Later that afternoon, Meric sits again at the sofa near the coffin. Jonn lowers himself beside her, his face pale with sleeplessness.
"Jonn, malagip mo paylang idi Baro a Tawen? (Jonn, do you still remember New Year?)" Meric asks softly, her voice breaking the silence.
Jonn glances at her, nodding. "Wen Manang, (Yes Manang,)"
They both recall the morning of January 1st, when they had washed clothes together despite Mercy's warning. She had always said it was bad luck—that washing clothes at the start of the year could wash away blessings, even lives. They laughed then, brushing off her words as another old superstition.
Now, the memory cuts deep.
"Maybe this is it," Jonn mutters. "Maybe her warning came true."
Meric swallows hard, guilt tightening her chest. She cannot tell if the thought comforts her—that it was fate—or if it destroys her, knowing she ignored her mother's words.
Their conversation is interrupted by the sound of a car stopping outside. Elric's white car gleams in the afternoon sun. The doors open, and Aldric and Adrion hop out, their small feet rushing down to the house.
"Mamang!" they cry, running to the coffin. They press their hands against the glass, peering in as if their grandmother is simply asleep. Their innocence stings the hearts of everyone present.
Three days pass. The routine of mourning settles in: prayers, visitors, candlelight, tears. On the third day, Jonn kneels by the coffin, his shoulders shaking.
"Mamang..." he whispers, his voice breaking. "I'm sorry. I know I wasn't always the best son. I could have done more. I could have stayed closer. There were so many things I planned to do if only you were still here..."
His sobs fill the sala, echoing against the wooden walls. The others pretend not to hear, but the grief is shared by all.
That night, Jonn notices something odd. Raffy, usually playful during the day, seems unusually restless at night. His eyes stay wide, his tiny paws pattering across the floor without pause. It is as if he refuses to sleep.
Suspicious, Jonn decides to keep watch. He stays in the sala with the coffin, sitting quietly in the dark. Hours pass. Then, he sees it—Raffy sneaks towards the red carpet just beneath the coffin, where platy for offerings of food and coffee are placed. The puppy stands on his hind legs and laps at the coffee meant for Mercy.
"Raffy!" Jonn whispers loudly, his jaw dropping.
The dog licks happily, completely unaware of his crime.
The next morning, Jonn tells Meric about it. "Manang, Raffy is the reason Mamang's coffee offerings keep disappearing."
Meric stares at the puppy in disbelief. She picks him up, wagging her finger at him. "Bad Raffy! That coffee is for Mamang, not for you!"
The family laughs for the first time in days. It is a small, fleeting relief, but one they desperately need. Even in grief, life finds ways to slip in some comedy.
But Mark, despite the laughter, remains heavy-hearted. He barely eats, barely speaks. He sits often by the coffin, watching silently, his small hands folded in prayer. His sadness is deeper than words, his young heart struggling to understand death.
One morning, a familiar face enters. Maxi, Mercy's younger brother, arrives and spends some time with the family. He pays his respects quietly, then later heads to Hermosa. His presence is brief, but meaningful.
After him come Al, Junior, and Rogie. They, too, offer their condolences, staying for an hour before leaving. The sala feels like a revolving door of visitors—faces entering, shedding tears, whispering prayers, and leaving with heavy steps.
However, Lucio can't make it since he is still in Saudi Arabia.
Through all of these days, the coincidence of Mercy's passing and the Lenten week weighs on everyone. The timing feels almost like a message—her death occurring during the season of sacrifice and reflection.
But to the family, it feels cruel. The house feels darker without her, the laughter gone, the energy stilled. Even with candles burning day and night, the sala seems dimmer, emptier.
Rico sits often in silence, staring at the coffin, as if waiting for Mercy to rise and scold him for dozing off again. Elric busies himself with visitors, but his shoulders remain heavy. Jonn continues to sit by the coffin, talking to it as if his mother can hear. Meric keeps herself occupied with chores, though tears spill freely whenever she stops moving.
And Mark—Mark carries the deepest sadness of all. For him, Mercy was not just a grandmother. She was a second mother, a constant embrace, the one who called him "apo" with a smile that melted his worries.
Now, the house without her feels like a house without light.