Chapter XXXII: The House Without a Light, Part 2
The morning light slants through the bamboo blinds of the sala, soft and muted, as if even the sun itself respects the presence of Mercy's coffin resting in the center. Meric sits nearby, wearing her white shirt and the ribbon on her head that has almost become a part of her since Palm Sunday. Mark hovers close, still too young to understand everything, but old enough to carry the heaviness in his chest.
The day begins with footsteps outside. The gravel crunches, and voices murmur. The first visitors arrive. Some of Mercy's high school friends step through the gate, holding rosaries, white flowers, and boxes of snacks wrapped in crinkled plastic.
"Dayta met, adda pay ti biag ni Mercy ditoy laeng, (Mercy was just alive days ago)" one of them whispers in Ilocano, her eyes fixed on the coffin, as if expecting Mercy to rise and greet them with her old familiar laugh.
Meric bows slightly, offering the seat at the corner of the sala. "Thank you for coming, Ninongs and Ninangs. Mama would be glad you visited."
The women sigh, their wrinkles deepening with grief. They reminisce about days of youth—about dances in the barangay plaza, sneaking guavas from a neighbor's tree, or how Mercy once tripped during a cotillion but stood back up like nothing happened.
From the kitchen, Rico tries to play host, fumbling with cups and pouring coffee. He mutters under his breath, "Ay apo... this coffee tastes like river water," then forces a smile as he serves it. The visitors laugh softly at his clumsy attempt, easing the somber air for a moment.
By late morning, college friends from Hermosa and Guardino arrive, followed by those from farther towns—Santolomingo, Tuanong, and Sta. Catalina. Each arrival feels like a fresh wound and a fresh salve at once: more tears, but also more stories of Mercy's humor, her kindness, her stubborn streak that could rival a storm.
One batchmate holds up an old class picture, edges curled and yellowed. "Here she was. Always the smallest in the front row. She was the one who taught us how to cheat... ah—no, how to survive exams!" The group chuckles, and even Meric manages a small smile through the tears.
But as the house fills with murmurs, the coffin at the center remains still, reminding them all that no matter how many stories they retell, Mercy herself cannot laugh with them anymore.
The sixth day arrives, and with it, the weight of Good Friday. The town moves slower, more reverent, as if the air itself is carrying lamentations.
Meric prepares herself and Mark for the procession. She wears her white blouse again, and secures the black ribbon around her head. Mark wears his white shirt, a small pin gleaming against the fabric—his mark of grief as a grandson.
As they walk toward Hermosa Cathedral, the streets are already lined with people holding candles. Vendors whisper instead of shout, selling boiled peanuts and bottled water in hushed tones, respecting the day's solemnity.
The carrozza of the Santo Entierro appears, heavy with flowers and candles, carrying the image of the dead Christ inside a glass coffin. The band plays slow, aching music, each drumbeat echoing in the chest like a heartbeat slowing down. From behind, the Crotalus (wooden clapper) echoes along the streets. Due to its aura, tourists often see that Hermosa's Good Friday procession looks like a real funeral procession.
Mark tugs Meric's hand. "Mommy... is this like Mamang?"
Meric bends down, brushing his hair. "Yes, balong. This is like Mamang, too. But this one is for Jesus. We remember Him,... and Mamang together."
Mark nods, though his eyes brim with tears, reflecting the glow of candles as they pass. He presses his lips tightly, trying to be brave, but finally buries his face into Meric's side.
The weight of the moment cracks Meric's heart again. She strokes his back, whispering, "It's okay to cry."
After the procession, as night settles and only the faintest smell of wax, scent of the perfumes the images used, and the fragrance of incense remains on the streets, Meric's phone buzzes. It's Ben, calling from Saudi. His voice is rough, as if pulled from the depths of exhaustion.
"Ma... how's everything?"
Meric exhales, sitting at the veranda. "We managed, Ben. We just joined the Santo Entierro. It's hard, but we're okay."
On the other end, Ben rubs his eyes. His chest tightens again, the same invisible force he felt the day Mercy died. "I wanted to come right away... when you told me she was gone. But the contract—"
"I know." Meric interrupts softly. "Mamang wouldn't want you to abandon your work. She challenged you, remember? To finish your studies, to make something of yourself. That's why you married me. She'd want you to finish this, too."
There's silence. Ben tries to speak but only lets out a shaky laugh. "You sound just like her, you know."
Meric smiles faintly, wiping her tears. "Maybe... because she lives in us now."
Throughout the week, sorrow weighs heavy in every corner of the house. The Bensmert Store remains closed. Neighbors pass by silently, peeking through the gate, whispering condolences. Inside, Mark sometimes sits near the coffin, sometimes playing with Legos or sobs at her grandmother.
Every night, prayers echo in the sala by the family.
However, some of the Ina Poonbato devotees come often, their devotion spilling over into Mercy's death. They bring their rosaries, their songs, their faith.
And Candy—Mercy's best friend—becomes the most frequent visitor.
One afternoon, after the rosary, Candy clears her throat. "I'll sing for her again."
She begins to sing "Mama" by Nora Aunor, her voice trembling at first, then strengthening with every word.
Mama, I missed the days,9Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqcnxKzfGaP
When you are here to guide me,9Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1EToWcM9LF
Mama, those happy days when you are near beside me
Safe in the glow of your love,9Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKxVfyP50k0
Send from the heavens above,9Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNt41B5KZjy
Nothing can ever replace,9Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2RlC4EEQ4e
The warmth of your tender embrace,9Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡT4nCrfbTXL
Oh Mama, until the days that were together once more,9Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkIE7TFkFEk
I lived in this memories,9Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3lIwAz60qc
Until the days that we're together once more.
Meric clasps her hands tightly. Mark leans into her lap, his small shoulders shaking. Rico turns away, covering his face with his palm. Even Elric, usually composed, lets his tears fall openly.
The song pierces through the air, every lyric a knife and a balm at once. When it ends, the silence feels unbearable. Candy bows her head, whispering, "Dios ti Kumuyog kenka Mercy, (May God be with you Mercy,)"
Meric can only nod, unable to form words.
The sorrow lingers, but Easter Sunday brings with it a strange mixture of mourning and resurrection. In the afternoon, the Ina Poonbato devotees gather again, their numbers fuller than before.
The sala, though shadowed by the coffin, is alive with prayer. The rosary beads click, the murmured Hail Marys rise and fall like waves. Mark fiddles with his pin, whispering prayers he half-remembers, half-makes-up.
When the final prayer is done, Candy raises her hand. "Let us sing."
This time, all of them join together. The familiar melody of "Laglagipem Kadi" fills the air, voices intertwining, some wavering, some strong.
"Laglagipem kadi... O-oh Dios Mi..."
The sound surrounds the coffin, lifts into the rafters, pours into every corner of the house. Meric closes her eyes, letting the song wash over her. In her mind, she sees Mercy standing there, in her red blouse, smiling, nodding along to the music.
Beside her, Mark looks up, his eyes wide. "Mommy... is Mamang listening?"
Meric cups his cheek. "Yes, balong. She is listening. And she is smiling."
The voices swell, and for a moment, the grief feels lighter, as if the song carries a piece of Mercy upward, toward the heavens where she now belongs.
The family is still broken, still learning to live in a house without its light. But through songs, prayers, and memories, Mercy's presence lingers. In every note sung, in every tear shed, in every laugh remembered, she is there.
The chapter ends not with silence, but with the echo of voices—living and dead—singing together across the divide.
ns216.73.216.67da2
and then Add to home screen.