RD201902

on each side. From ridge to ridge,

west to east, I could see every shade

of green.

“Two hours more,” Doods said.

His not knowing anything about the

purpose of my journey was a relief. I

had enough interior dialogue going

on. I was no better than my parents.

I could have done more to free Lola.

Why didn’t I? 

I tapped the cheap plastic box and

regretted not buying a real urn, made

of porcelain or rosewood. What would

Lola’s people think? Not many were

left. Only one sibling remained in the

area, Gregoria, 98 years old, and I was

told her memory was failing. One of

Lola’s nieces had planned a simple

memorial, followed by the lowering of

the ashes into a plot at the Mayantoc

Eternal Bliss Memorial Park.

Doods veered northwest. Two lanes

became one, and then gravel turned to

dirt. The path ran along the Camiling

River, clusters of bamboo houses off to

the side, green hills ahead. The home

stretch.

In the late 1970s, I was attending col-

lege an hour away. On my frequent

trips home, I heard Lola say that her

mouth hurt. Then her teeth started

falling out.

“That’s what happens when you

don’t brush properly,” Mom told her.

I said that Lola needed to see a den-

tist. She was in her 50s and had never

been to one. A year went by, then two.

Lola’s teeth looked like a crumbling

Stonehenge. One night, I lost it.

Lola could barely eat because her

teeth were rotting out of her head, I

screamed at my mother. Couldn’t she

think of her as a real person instead

of as a slave?

To outsiders, Lola (far right) looked like one of the family. That was their cover story.

96 february 2019

courtesy melissa tizon

Reader’s Digest