Although I am from Davao City, my family has more relatives in Cagayan de Oro than where I come from. I had fond memories of traveling there to meet extended family members. Larger meal attendance, longer time at the table, and always felt lonelier when our visit comes to an end.
Because our family roots are in Bohol—on both my parents’ side—May fiestas were almost sacred dates, probably second only to Christmas. There was a running joke that the province sinks a few centimeters once this month kicks in because of the volume of fiesta goers. The usual route was simple: take the bus or a short flight from Davao to Cagayan de Oro, then take an overnight ferry to Jagna port.
On one of those trips, my mother met one of my father’s relatives: Aunt Sylvia Go.
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Expectations and reality
When I first learned that Aunt Sylvia had married a man of Chinese lineage, I immediately imagined she must be well-off. In my mind, that meant she might be able to help us. At the time, we were saddled with debts; we had even sold our small shop in the market to help fund our studies. I pictured Aunt Sylvia as financially comfortable and compassionate—someone who used to work at Zenco Footstep, now staying at home and taking care of her children.
My mother did appeal to her for help. When I later found out that she refused, not out of coldness but because she was also struggling with daily financial concerns, my perspective shifted. Instead of feeling offended, I realized we were in the same boat.
After college, I worked in Davao City for three years before moving to Cagayan de Oro for a job. My office at Philweb was in Carmen, in the same neighborhood where Aunt Sylvia’s family lived. It felt almost wrong not to visit.
One Saturday afternoon, I finally found time to pay her a visit. Gone were the images in my head of a large bungalow with an old but decent car parked in the garage. What I saw instead was a modest home, a life that looked very similar to ours. Aunt Sylvia greeted me with a warm smile and immediately invited me in for something to eat.
“Thanks, I just had lunch at Corrales, and will be heading to the office soon,” I told her.
She was the younger sister of my Uncle Max, who is very dear to me. Like Gary Jaravata and Raul Ramirez, Uncle Max had once given me shelter in Manila during my job-hunting days. Seeing his sister, I felt an instant kinship.
Hopes pinned on a son
Aunt Sylvia had a son studying nautical science, hoping to work on an ocean-going vessel after graduation. When we suggested he stay with Uncle Max during his Manila practicum, he hesitated.
“Uncle Max is strict,” he said.
I smiled and replied, “Yeah, he is strict, but I like the way he treats me. Just be honest with him. Don’t be shy. I used to sleep in their dining room when I first came to San Andres Bukid, and his family treated me well.”
As Aunt Sylvia looked at her son, I could see the hope in her eyes. I imagined she saw him in a neatly pressed white uniform, hair freshly trimmed, standing on the deck of a ship, overseeing cargo operations somewhere in the Far East. That silent dream in her gaze said more than any words.
Before long, I bid them goodbye and head to the white house at Fr Masterson’s. I promised I would visit again, especially since my office was just a walking distance away.
Promises, departures, and distance
That promise, sadly, was never fulfilled.
Barely a month after that first and only proper visit, I was assigned to Manila for a one-month work stint. When I returned to Cagayan de Oro, it was for me to bid goodbye to my CDO colleagues and head to Philweb’s Makati office. As I packed my luggage, Papa Lito, whose place I was staying in, helped me fix my hanging closet as we both felt a quiet sadness about this change. I lived at Corrales in relative comfort. I have my meals prepared in lunchbox and even laundry pressed.
My schedule was tight. I left Cagayan de Oro at night for a bus ride home, unable to personally say goodbye to my other relatives. The next morning, I was in Davao, already prepping for my flight to Manila. Life moved quickly, and so did I.
When I arrived in Manila, I proudly told Uncle Max about my visit to his sister’s house and even joked that he shouldn’t be too strict with his nephews. Though he was only my father’s cousin, I was, and still am, deeply grateful for the hospitality of his family—him, Aunt Thelma, and their children April and Ken.
Just six months later, I took another big step and moved to Hong Kong. Days turned into months, and my lifestyle changed: more activities and more things demanding my attention. Slowly, without intending to, I drifted away from regular contact with folks I used to regularly interact with.
News I didn’t want to hear
One day, April—Uncle Max’s daughter—told me that Aunt Sylvia had cancer, already in its terminal stage. I immediately informed my family in Davao and asked them to reach out, to offer help in whatever way we could.
Later on, while I was excitedly telling April about a recent trip to Singapore, her reply cut through my enthusiasm and left me silent: Aunt Sylvia had passed away on November 11, more than four years after we met.
I hadn’t been very close to her, but that one visit stayed with me. Seeing her in person, sharing even that short moment, was enough to create a gentle, lasting memory.
What remains
She might not have lived long enough to see her son fully in uniform, standing proudly on deck, but I believe she would be happy with any success he achieves. It won’t be easy for him to move forward without a mother, but her sacrifices—especially her efforts to send him to school—can be a powerful source of strength.
I’ve come to believe that every meeting with anyone can be special, whether it’s with a close friend, a parent, a high school bully, an old office security guard, or your favorite saleslady at a department store. My brief time with Aunt Sylvia reminded me of that. We never really know if a conversation, a shared meal, or a quick visit with someone might be the last one we’ll be granted .
Sadly, we have one short lifespan, and within it we share our goals, joys, and fears with the people around us. Isn’t it a gift when someone is willing to share that memory with us?
Because one day, that friend, that relative, that familiar face may be gone —and all we’ll have left are the promises we kept, the kindness we showed, and the memories we were lucky enough to make.