The Last Ride on Calle Soledad

The sun bled orange over the gnarled acacia trees lining Calle Soledad, casting long, twisted shadows that seemed to stretch toward the house like grasping fingers. In that dusty provincial town, where the church bells still rang the Angelus at six and the old women sat on their porches watching the world pass by, we lived a quiet life. My grandfather, whom I called Lolo Ambo, had been a robust man until the illness took him. For two years, he lay in his bed, a skeleton under thin sheets, his cough rattling the window panes. But on the feast day of Our Lady of Peace, something miraculous happened. He rose, dressed in his favorite barong, and walked out to the plaza as if he had never been ill. We wept with joy, and I thanked the heavens for granting him more time.

A year passed, and Lolo Ambo was his old self, though he tired easily. He loved nothing more than to sit on the wicker chair on our porch, watching the tricycles and pedicabs pass, waving at neighbors, and especially doting on my son, Mateo, who was only two. Mateo would climb onto his lap, and Lolo would sing him old Visayan lullabies, his voice cracked but sweet. It was during the annual fiesta, exactly a year after his miraculous recovery, that I felt a chill despite the afternoon heat. Lolo had been quiet all day, staring at the horizon as if waiting for someone. When I asked him what was wrong, he merely smiled and said, ‘I’m just savoring the day, anak.’

Four days before his death, I decided to visit him with Mateo. The town was preparing for the fiesta, bunting and lanterns strung across the streets, the smell of lechon already wafting from the plaza. Lolo’s eyes lit up when he saw us at the door. He was dressed, which was unusual, and he insisted on taking a ride in his old pedicab, a rusty contraption he had kept since his youth. ‘It’s a good day for a ride,’ he said, his voice firm but with a slight tremor. I hesitated, glancing at the darkening sky, but he pleaded, ‘I just want to feel the wind on my face, with my apo beside me. Please.’

So we rode, Lolo pedaling slowly despite my offers to take over. He waved at everyone we passed, grinning like a child. Mateo laughed, reaching out to touch the hanging vines and flowers. We went down Calle Soledad, past the old church, past the cemetery, and onto a dirt road that led to the river. Lolo stopped the pedicab at a grove of bamboo by the riverbank. He sat there, breathing deeply, his eyes closed. ‘This is where I first met your grandmother,’ he said softly. ‘She was washing clothes, and I was fishing. I got my line tangled, and she laughed at me. That laugh, I knew I would love her forever.’ I knelt beside him, taking his hand. ‘Lolo, we should go home. It’s getting late.’ But he shook his head. ‘Not yet. I want to see the fireflies.’

We waited, and soon the air filled with tiny flickering lights, dancing over the water. I looked at Lolo, and his face was serene, tears streaming down his cheeks. ‘They’re beautiful, aren’t they?’ he said. I nodded, not trusting my voice. Then he turned to me, his eyes suddenly intense. ‘I’m not coming back, anak. I know you feel it too. But I’m okay. I’ve lived my life, and I have you and Mateo. Just promise me one thing.’ I choked back sobs. ‘Anything, Lolo.’ He squeezed my hand. ‘When the time comes, don’t be afraid to let me go. And always remember, love is eternal, even when the body fails.’ We sat there until the moon rose, and then I pedaled him back home.

The next three days, Lolo stayed in bed, too weak to move. He asked for Mateo constantly, and I would sit him by the bed, watching Lolo’s eyes soften as he traced the boy’s features with his gaze. On the day before his death, he asked me to bring him his old radio, and he tuned it to a station playing kundiman songs. He hummed along, his voice barely a whisper. At midnight, he called me to his bedside. ‘I saw her, anak,’ he said, his eyes bright. ‘Your Lola. She was standing at the foot of the bed, smiling. She said she’s been waiting for me.’ I tried to argue, but he shushed me. ‘Don’t be sad. This is the natural order of things.’ He held my hand, and I felt the strength ebbing from him. ‘Promise me you’ll take care of Mateo. And don’t let him forget his old Lolo.’ I promised, weeping, and he smiled. ‘Good. Now, let me go. I can see the fireflies.

He passed peacefully in his sleep, a faint smile on his lips. The morning found me numb, performing the rituals with a hollow heart. But as I stood by his grave in the old cemetery, watching the coffin lower, something remarkable happened. A swarm of fireflies appeared, despite the day being bright and hot, and they circled the grave three times before disappearing into the acacia trees. The townsfolk whispered of souls passing, but I knew it was Lolo saying goodbye. I gathered Mateo in my arms, holding him close, and I whispered to him, ‘Lolo is with the fireflies now, and he will always watch over us.’

Years have passed, but I still visit the riverbank on the eve of the fiesta. I watch the fireflies dance, and I feel Lolo’s presence, a warmth around me. Mateo, now a boy, often asks about his Lolo, and I tell him the story of the miracle, the ride, and the fireflies. And every time, I look up at the sky and whisper, ‘Thank you, Lolo, for the time you gave us.’ The fireflies flicker in response, as if to say, ‘I am still here.’