The Scent of Sampaguita

The summer I turned twelve, my grandmother passed away. The news came through a crackling phone line from my cousin, and the world seemed to tilt. I had spent every school vacation in her sleepy village, where the air smelled of ripe mangoes and the river sang a muted lullaby. My grandmother’s house was a sanctuary of creaking floors, the scent of dried herbs, and the gentle rhythm of her rocking chair. Now, that chair sat empty, and the house was draped in somber silence.

After the burial, as tradition demanded, the family gathered for a final night in her home. My cousins, aunts, and uncles filled the rooms, but the young ones—my two brothers, a handful of cousins, and I—claimed the wide living room. We laid out a banig, a handwoven mat, on the polished wooden floor. In front of us, the altar glowed with candles, their flames casting wavering ghosts on the walls. A framed photograph of my grandmother smiled from among white flowers, her eyes crinkled with warmth. I avoided looking at it too long.

I never slept with pillows, a quirk my cousins knew and teased me about. That night, I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling’s water stains, tracing their shapes as I tried to drift off. The chattering of my cousins faded into a hush, then into soft breathing and the occasional sigh. The house settled into its nightly creaks, but something felt off. The air was heavier, thick with the scent of sampaguita—her favorite flower—even though no blooms were visible.

I must have dozed off, because the next thing I knew, I was not on the banig. I was cradled in someone’s lap, a familiar warmth enclosing me. My head rested on soft, fabric-covered knees, and a hand, light as a fallen leaf, began to stroke my hair. The sensation was so real, so tender, that I almost sighed in contentment. But then my eyes snapped open, and through the dim candlelight, I saw the hem of a floral dress—the exact one my grandmother had worn at family gatherings. A voice, soft as rustling silk, hummed a lullaby I knew from my childhood.

I tried to move, to turn my head, but my body was frozen, trapped in a dreamlike paralysis. The hand continued its soothing motion, and the humming grew clearer. My heart thudded, but a strange calm washed over me. I knew I should be terrified, yet I felt nothing but a bone-deep longing. I managed to whisper, ‘Lola?’ The humming stopped. The hand paused. A cold breath kissed my forehead, and then pressure—the pressure of lips pressing to my skin—lingered for a moment before vanishing.

The scent of sampaguita intensified, and then it was gone. I could move again. I scrambled to my knees, my breath ragged, and looked around the dark room. My cousins slept soundly, and the candles had burned low, but the air was clear. The photograph on the altar seemed different; the smile now looked reassuring, as if to say, ‘It’s alright, anak.’

I didn’t sleep again that night. When dawn broke, I told my eldest cousin, who simply nodded and said, ‘She loved you most, you know. She probably couldn’t leave without saying goodbye.’ I looked at the altar, at her gentle eyes, and felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the morning light. To this day, I cannot smell sampaguita without feeling a hand on my hair. I no longer need to believe in ghosts, because I have felt my grandmother’s love beyond the veil.