An Afternoon in Paco Park: Contemplations on Choosing a Final Resting Place

The Historical Marker at the entrance of Paco Park.

The old mortuary chapel, now a popular wedding venue.

A few weekends ago, Oliver and I left the kids at home and headed out for coffee. We needed to have a serious conversation about preparing for the future.  Oliver's brother Owen had just died, and his passing away forced opened a series of flood gates, and we drowned in questions to which we had no ready answers. We drove around Manila and stumbled upon Paco Park, an old Spanish-era cemetery built in the early 1800's. It was hauntingly beautiful.

The elevated promenade above the old cemetery niches.

That Sunday afternoon, there was a wedding going on in the park's little stone chapel, the garden was quite deserted, however, so we had the place to ourselves. We walked up centuries old stone steps to get to an elevated promenade which offered a panoramic view of the layers of niches neatly embedded in the cemetery's concentric walls. From inside the chapel, a choir was singing "Anima Christi", and the lyrics reduced us to silence. A wedding is such a hopeful ritual, sanctifying the union of strangers who are drunk with love, transforming them into a family. How peculiar to hold it in a place as sobering as a cemetery.  On some level, however, it is profoundly fitting to tie the knot in a place like this - after all, both marriage and death symbolize something permanent, final.

"Cadena Perpetua", my mother says of marriage - you are linked (or chained) to each other for eternity. That afternoon in Paco park made me think about marriage, family, and death - where will my resting place be when the call of death arrives?  Both Oliver and I would want to respect each other's wishes when it is our turn to confront the inevitable. This can only be done, however, if our wishes are known.  While taking care of arrangements for his brother's burial at Manila Memorial Park, Oliver considered buying memorial plans for us. The family just bought adjacent lots, and plans on building a mausoleum. Details like allocations, design lay-out, and even "positioning" are now being discussed... incredibly awkward topics that need to be addressed so construction could begin. 

The conversation we started that afternoon in Paco Park was revived again today, and became even more pressing.  Sadly, suddenly, shockingly, an aunt - Tita Boots - died two days ago of a heart attack, and Oliver, once again, had to go to Manila Memorial Park for burial arrangements. While there, he gave me a call, and we had one of the weirdest conversations ever - so morbid, it could only be carried out with humor.

"Babe", he said, "I'm buying 2 memorial plans for both of us". He sounds excited.  "I'm now an expert on caskets, there are nuances to picking one, what color, what finish, what kind of door - single or double, for half or full viewing", he chuckles as he explains. "I've scrutinized the burial packages available, I'm choosing for you, just go for the upgrade if you're not happy with it", I laugh at the word "upgrade"... and knowing his penchant for picking the good stuff, I asked him "can I get a downgrade instead and get a cash refund for the difference?" True enough, he confirms:  "hindi siya mura ha! (but it's not cheap ha!)... It's my Christmas gift na!" he laughs. "Yehey!"- I reply sarcastically, we both laugh.  

Haha. The hopeless romantic in me interprets his gesture in the most flattering light - he loves me so much, he'd want to lie next to me forever? I thought when we exchanged vows, we only promised 'til death do us part' and we're free to choose separate "accommodations" afterwards! We tried to keep the conversation light with humor. But I found myself teary-eyed.  I want to be buried with family, for sure, but how can I think of "family" without my dad, mom, and sis? 

I am still in denial about a certain truth I instinctively know, that marriage and childbirth are so life-changing they've changed what the word "family" means for me now.  Of course a word can hold multiple meanings, but one meaning would tend to be privileged over all others. What family means to me now, first and foremost, is Oliver, Narra and Guijo.  I love this new family we started, I am awash with gratitude for this precious, picture-perfect family God blessed me with. But something hurts, deep inside. For 3 decades I thought of family primarily in terms of that 4-person unit that made up our happy Briones home.  For the past 3 years, I mentally appended my new family to my old one, from a circle of 4, to 5 with Oliver, to 6 with the addition of Narra, to 7 with Guijo's arrival.  I deluded myself into thinking no transition was necessary from old family to new, that the two were seamlessly welded in a continuum.

The question on what I would choose as a final resting place however, sends my mind reeling with the painful truth that the two roads to eternity chosen by my two families diverge, and I could not travel on both roads without splitting myself in half.  Oliver is looking at coffins and plans for us to be buried at Manila Memorial Park. My mother bought a vault at the spanking new National Shrine of St. Therese Columbarium, a modern resting place for cremated remains of the departed. Four urns can be accommodated in each vault. I am welcome at either resting place. So Oliver asks, if something happens to me, what are my wishes? He will respect whatever I choose.

I know that before I got married, when Oliver's family came to my house for the pamamanhikan, it was a symbolic ritual, a transfer of rights - from my family to his - I was being taken into his family with my family's consent, because we asked for their blessing. What was being brokered was a lifetime of memories.  When I was "given away" by my dad at the end of the aisle on my wedding day, these were part of what he was giving away: the exclusive right to Christmases and other holidays and where they will be spent - and even where I will be laid to rest when God calls me back to Him. By virtue of marriage, I have an invitation to the Carsi Cruz plot in the cemetery. Will I say yes to the invitation?

At my wedding, being "given away" by my parents.

My mind goes back to my wedding day and how joyously I said "I do" to being bound to Oliver. I was bursting with happiness, in a spiritual way, to the core of my being. Walking down the aisle felt like walking into the light and seeing everything clearly because I followed my heart to commit to a future with him.  We got married on 08-08-08 because 8 means infinity,  symbolizing forever. 8 also looks like a chain, "cadena perpetua" - as my mother would say. I recall an unusual thing we did at our wedding  - I walked down the aisle to a song sung a capella by my best friend Tristan. The lyrics went:

Take and receive Oh Lord, my liberty

take all my will, my mind, my memory,

All things I hold, and all I own are thine,

thine was the gift to thee I all resign

Do thou direct, and govern all and sway

do what thou will command, and I obey

Only thy grace, thy love on me bestow,

these make me rich, all else will I forego

And as I replay the scene in my head, of me walking down the aisle, and how at that moment, I understood the meaning of this song at a much deeper level than ever before, it becomes clearer to me where I want to finally be laid to rest.

That afternoon in Paco Park, we were at a cemetery, and there was a wedding, and I remembered my own wedding, and how Oliver and I held each other in a tight embrace as soon as we were pronounced man and wife. It felt like coming home. While at Paco Park I had a mental picture of us, together for a very long time, in life...and in death. I saw an image of our children and grandchildren visiting our graves - we are side by side, their Papa and Mama, their Lolo and Lola, in this beautiful family mausoleum made of bricks. I know my place is by my husband's side.