A Lady Called Constancia

Constancia, of Latin origin, meaning steadfastness; resolutely or dutifully unwavering; firm purpose.

A name that perfectly suited you, our Mamang.

You played a significant part in my childhood. You and Daddy Bening, through your perseverance and hard work, were able to establish yourselves well. You had given your children a place where to raise their young families, a place they can call home – their early inheritance as you have termed it. Because of that, I grew up with you and all of my cousins, living in one compound. Strong bonds were formed as we created the fondest of memories that defined our childhood that is full of fun, laughter and just enough drama that one can expect from 6 families who bump into each other on a daily basis.

My first memories of you was when I was 4. My mom and my dad used to leave me at your place every morning as they had to go to work. I know the same was true for some of my cousins but the details are quite vague to me now, but all I can recall is that your house turned into a day-care centre for me, my sister and some of my cousins most days of the week, so imagine the daily chaos that you got to tolerate! You must have been in your 50s then, still very strong, apart from your diabetes. I remember watching you prepare coffee and some breakfast for Daddy Bening and my uncles who were helping out with the family taxi business. Your mornings were the busiest – you sat near the front door, collected all the daily boundary from all the taxi drivers while holding a big notebook with a hard blue cover, and a pen. You maintained a daily log, where each page had all the names of the drivers, and noting down how much each one handed and then you’d ask them to sign across each line as an acknowledgement. You were very focused and composed in doing your task, while the boys were busy outside, on the street, making sure each taxi unit was in good condition before it hit the road. I remember you as a tough lady, a trait that your role required and I guess you delivered so efficiently, from the eyes of a young girl who did watch you intently.

When all of the taxis were out of sight, you then would go up to your bedroom and I would come with you. You would open the closet and I’d smell the scent of mothballs. I can still vividly recall that wooden square box with a wooden lid. That was where you had kept the cash that you collected every morning. Sometimes, you’d let me help you sort the cash by denominations. You then tallied them all up and bundled them with a rubber band. You would place back the box into the closet, locked it into safety, until you and Daddy Bening had to go to the bank to deposit them later in the day.

When it was time for me to go to my pre-school which was a block away, we would walk together and you’d drop me off to Mrs. Lazar’s class and you would then go straight to the market to buy your ingredients for lunch and dinner. I am not sure if you also picked me up from school, but what I am sure of is that I always look forward to your cooking. Tonight I prepared one of my favourite dishes that you prepare – yellow chicken curry. I know I could have made you proud, but your version is way better than mine.

You then left the compound after some years and moved to a bigger house which was quite a drive, so we got to see you less and less. I remember spending weekends or school breaks at your place with 3 or 4 other cousins during our teenage years and those days were the best! I can’t recall many casual conversations with you about life or about anything in particular, and maybe that was because your day had been occupied with a lot of juggling being a woman in business, a mother, a grandmother who took care of all of us. The only time I had seen you stay still was in front of the television, watching the drama series in the afternoon while all of us were napping, or rather pretending to be napping.

Your health deteriorated fast when you had a foot infection that worsened due to complications of diabetes. You had to be amputated and I could still hear your pain. I remember you calling your mother’s name while crying in so much pain. We all cried with you, our dear Mamang. Your suffering ended not long after, and you said goodbye at the age of 74.

I didn’t get the chance to thank you enough, so let me take that chance today. Thank you for being a pillar of strength – a woman who commanded respect through dedication and perseverance. Thank you for sharing your time with us, for taking care of us despite your busy days when you should already be planning of retiring and slowing down. Thank you for helping us financially during those times when we needed support to be able to pay for my college fees. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to pay you enough gratitude as you passed away the year that I graduated in college and just landed my first job.

We always remember you on your birthday Mamang, but yesterday I guess, I just missed you more. We are all grieving for the loss of your daughter, Tita Linda, but we find consolation knowing that she is now reunited with you in a better place. We, your family here, are now helpless and in despair as some members are battling serious illnesses, emotional and physical fatigue and anxiety. May your strength and steadfast heart inspire us to be courageous in these trying times. May your love and the life that you shared with all of us continue to bind us as a family who will see through all these, and emerge victorious, stronger and better individuals.

You would have turned 98 yesterday. Happy birthday in heaven. We love you and we miss you so dearly.