Grief is a piano you can’t play

“You did what?! You never asked me if I wanted it!”

My throat was swelling.

“You don’t have room for a piano, Jess.”

“I would have MADE room.  You didn’t ask me! How could you not ASK me?”

My face was hot and my eyes were wild with anger.  I was staring at my parents in shock and pain. Prior to this moment, I was well aware of the emotional and mental pain my parents were enduring as they sold my grandparent’s (Lolo and Lola in Tagalog) home.  The house had been put in my mom and her three sisters names after my Lolo died.  It was my Lola’s way of making sure things were fair after she died.  That also meant all emotions were present during each phase of letting go of my Lolo and Lola’s home which had not been easy. I constantly checked in with my parents to see how they were handling the process and up until this moment, I had been good at giving them space to share the swirl of emotions accompanied in this experience.  I knew that as much as they wanted to be done with the task, they were going to miss what the house represented.

My parents said nothing.  They saw the pain on my face and that pain needed to go somewhere… Anywhere.  My tears streamed down my face and I felt a rage that surprised all of us.  I didn’t want it to be about me in that moment. I had been fairly good at being supportive as my parents navigated the pain and numbing task after a death. After all, I was staring at my mother, who officially had no parents left on this earth, as I stared at my two parents, still present and breathing.  

I felt the kid inside me crying.  She was angry. She couldn’t help it. She needed a turn.

Let me back track a bit down memory lane.   

I am pretty sure everyone knows a Filipino family can be huge, loud, and (from my perspective) a ton of fun. I was fortunate to be part of one.  My grandparents came from the Philippines with their six children, one of whom is my mom. That is six children that grew up to give my grandparents seventeen grandchildren, not including spouses, partners, and great grandchildren.  Needless to say, family gatherings were huge.  

Everything and anything was an excuse to get together.  The kitchen would be filled with all types of food.  If someone said the party was for 20 people, we’d cook for 50.  If the party was for 50, we’d cook for 100. Everyone’s plate was piled high and it was the first place you visited upon entering the house.  That is, after you kissed and hugged all the elders.  Laughter and conversations could be heard from every corner of my grandparent’s home.  Some of us would be playing mahjong, a tile game played in many Asian homes, that required gambling and a thick skin for teasing.  My parents, aunties, and uncles would be pulling each other onto whatever open space there was so they could Cha Cha to some 70s disco or Motown favorite like September by Earth, Wind and Fire.  Slowly, the aunties and uncles would grab the kids to practice the steps with them. Some of us were naturals and others struggled… but we all danced.  At one point, all of the cousins would corral into one of the bedrooms or garage to laugh, talk, and connect.  It was loud, ridiculous, and I loved it all.

Amongst all this chaos, one spot remained neat, quiet, and sacred. My Lolo’s den. My Lolo’s den had an open wall that looked into his living room where you could peer into the madness that was his children and grandchildren.  My grandfather would be sitting at his desk watching quietly as we partied the night away.  Every once in awhile, he would call one of us into the room to chat and check-in.  Sometimes it would be merely to report on something new and other times we were being scolded and warned about the grief we were giving our parents. He knew everything. We would answer and run back to the chaos calling the next person at Lolo’s requested.  

“Go get your brother.”

“Okay, Lolo!”

“J, Lolo wants you.”

“…Okay"

We knew the rhythm, and we were all pretty good at it. He wasn’t that type of grandparent who was super fuzzy, silly and loved to spoil the grandchildren. I would be selling a lie and a different kind of image.  No, my grandfather came off more like the Godfather.  A respect that was a mixture of fear and mafia-style love. He wore tinted glasses that blocked his gaze to the point where, even though you couldn’t see his eyes, you could assume he was watching you. As we ran around the house, he would call us into the room one by one. The message we all seem to receive in different tones and styles is to remember, “family first.”  It was his way of reminding us in our party and chaos of how it stays together. As an adult and parent, I see the flaws in his parenting style and how some of his tough love tactics probably caused some much needed therapy.  As his grandchild, I loved him.  

What was also located in my Lolo’s den, was his piano. After the party would die down, in the quiet parts of the day, my grandfather would play on that piano all his favorite songs. He had a way of hitting certain keys in a repetitious way that mimicked the songs of the 40s and 50s.  He loved to play the piano, and he could play it really really well.  The melodies from the musicals by Fred Astaire, Dorris Day, The Rat Pack, and Gene Rogers would fill the house while I usually helped Lola in the kitchen.

There were a few times in my life when I found myself living with my Lolo and Lola.  The first was when I was six year old.  My parents, brother, sister, and I were in a car accident.  My parents spent nearly half a year in the hospital as we bounced between grandparents.  That is story for another time.  Again at sixteen, I found myself at my Lolo and Lola’s when my parents felt I was headed down a “bad” path and sent me up north to straighten me out.  What remained constant was the food, mahjong (which is tied to my memory of my Lola), and Lolo’s piano. 

When my Lolo died, it was one month before I got married.  I had told my fiancé that when my Lolo would die, I wouldn’t be okay.  I held up to my end of the bargain and grieved as we married.  Nine years later, when my Lola died, my heart broke again.  I held the tension between feeling comforted that my grandparents were no longer separated from each other… and that the family-filled party that was full of love and chaos was officially over.  

I had let go of the idea that I would be able to take an item from my Lolo and Lola’s house.  After all, there were six children and seventeen grandchildren (not including spouses and partners) to split items amongst.  We lived over 600 miles away and the last thing I wanted to do was make request that would create more stress and heart ache. 

So I sat back.

Until that day I was sitting in my parents kitchen and I heard my dad say to my mom that the movers had picked up the piano for donation.  My parents said (that at the last minute) the piano was an item that could not be taken.  With only one day left to clear the house before the sale was final, they donated it to a local church.

I contemplated calling the church to ask for the piano back.  

In was in that moment, almost a decade after my Lolo died and less than year after my Lola died, I was reminded of the waves grief can flow in.  One wave can impact several people differently.  For some it can feel manageable, sometimes even welcoming.  Other waves can hit you in the chest and knock the wind out of you and no emotion, no matter how long it’s been, is off limits. For some of us, selling the house was the wave that knocked us off our feet…. For me, it was the piano. I felt my grief resurge in a way that I never knew it would and I cry every time I think about the piano that no longer sits in anyone’s home. 

For me, I think the piano was unknown piece that I could have had of my Lolo and Lola.  I saw it as a way of maintaining a continuing bond (ways of maintaining a relationship with our deceased).  An opportunity to have something that would be rooted in memories that will never be replicated. 

My reaction that night, felt like a tantrum. And in many ways it was.  It was my seven-year-old self realizing that I needed something to remember those moments.  I realized I was grieving the secondary losses that were attached to the death of my Lolo and Lola.  How the family changed and how we all changed.  And just like I would for my daughter, I gave space for her to be upset and acknowledge how much it sucked.  

I try to stay connected with my grandparents and keep their memory alive.  I’ve recently taught my twins Mahjong, and as tempting as it is, we have kept the gambling pieces out of the game for now.  My daughter loves to play the piano with my mom, and every so often we have Dorris Day and The Rat Pack on in the background. We share the crazy stories of that home on Jennings Avenue and how that house was alive.  It’s my way of staying connected to them as I move forward (One of William Worden’s FourTasks of Mourning).  

I’m not sure what my children will hold onto as we move forward, but I hope we continue to have conversations that break open the light on the small things that move us. The pain I felt around that piano, was my reminder that my grief is still there and it needs me.  It’s my reminder that we all bend to death’s lessons, and in the words of Caleb Wilde (Author of Confessions of a Funeral Director), “We are all children in death.”

Dedicated to my Lolo & Lola