Offering: for March 10th and every day

I first started thinking about travelling to Malaysia a long time ago, thanks to a book given to me by my auntie, my mother's sister. We shared a lot of ideas about travel, about the wonders of linguistic and cultural immersion, and I think she gave me the book to help spur me onto further travels of my own, though it was about fifteen years before I finally got to Malaysia.

Twelve years ago, I went to Costa Rica, which was a place my auntie knew and loved well. I remember the email exchanges we had before and after my trip, and I remember too my auntie berating me a little bit when I was slow to respond, teaching me email etiquette that was still relatively new to me back then.

I can't help thinking about that now that I'm finally here in South-East Asia, how much I wish I'd been quicker to write those emails, to write these ones. Because now, Auntie, you're not in any place where you can read all the things I'd like to write to you about Malaysia, or answer any of the questions I'd like to ask. We lost you on another March 10th, much too soon.

Your death was the first one for me, and at the time I had no idea how strong your presence would continue to be. At first all you can feel is the absence, which doesn't get better over time but hits you unexpectedly with full intensity, time and time again. And later anger as another kind of grieving - anger that when I finally started to study linguistics too, it was too late for all the debates we should have been able to have, the disagreements and maybe the new conclusions we could have found together. Anger at all the other things you should have had that time took away too early.

In 2008, we lost another beloved auntie, my father's sister this time, also to cancer. Another auntie who shared the delight in travel, in immersing yourself through the medium of language (and coincidentally, also a sense of deep connection to Latin America). And more grief, and more anger. I wanted to bring my children to the two of you, listen maybe a little rebelliously to your parenting advice, get to know you as a fellow adult not just as a niece and a child. I wanted you both to be able to grow old.

I won't be able to show you my photos or confess my moments of weakness or joy on this voyage of mine. But I wish that in some way you can know how much you are both with me along the way. How thoughts of you come so unexpectedly from some sharp image etched on the air, from laughter; and how the thoughts come with a sudden constriction in my throat and tears in my eyes. And how joyful it still is to think of you, to feel your presences even though I wish so much that you were still here.

I had no idea at first, how long grief lasts. But in the end I wouldn't give it up, if it meant not knowing you still. Queridas tias, os amo.