The Weeping Cane

My grandmother, Lola Ising, would always tell this story at family gatherings, her voice dropping to a hush as the rice cooker steamed and the children played under the table. It was a story about a woman named Corazon, her husband Miguel, and their two children: a boy of four named Diego and a baby girl named Lila.

Miguel was a farmer, a quiet man who loved the earth. He died during a simple operation to remove a cyst from his brain—a routine procedure that went horribly wrong. The doctors said it was a rare complication. Corazon was left with Diego, who had just turned four, and Lila, who was not yet one. They lived in a small nipa hut on the edge of a vast rice paddy, a lone coconut tree standing sentinel in the yard.

The afternoon of the tragedy, the air was thick and humid, promising rain. Corazon had to prepare dinner—a simple stew of dried fish and vegetables. She placed Lila on the bamboo papag, a low, wide bed that served as a daybed, propped up with pillows so she could watch the ceiling fan creak overhead. ‘Diego,’ she said, ‘watch your sister while I cook. Make sure she doesn’t roll off.’

Diego was sitting on the floor, pushing his wooden toy truck along the grooves in the bamboo floor, making soft ‘vroom’ sounds. He nodded, but his eyes were on his truck. Corazon went to the corner where the small kerosene stove sat, its blue flame hissing. She began to chop vegetables, the rhythmic thump of the knife on the wooden board a counterpoint to the hum of the fan.

A few minutes later, she glanced over her shoulder. Diego was on the other side of the room now, his truck forgotten, now pushing a ball of yarn. Lila was alone on the papag, her tiny arms waving at the fan. Corazon felt a spike of irritation. ‘Diego, I told you to watch your sister! What if she falls?’

Diego looked up, his face serene. ‘It’s okay, Ma. Papa is watching her.’

Corazon’s hand froze over the knife. ‘What did you say?’

Diego resumed pushing the ball. ‘Papa. He’s sitting on the papag, on the other side. He’s humming to her, like he used to.’

A chill ran down Corazon’s spine. Miguel had died three months ago. She remembered the funeral, the wooden casket, the flowers that wilted in the heat. She walked to the papag, her legs feeling weak. Lila was cooing, reaching toward the empty space beside her. The bamboo mat was smooth, unbroken—no indentation, no trace of anyone sitting there.

‘Diego, your father is dead,’ she said, her voice sharp. ‘He’s buried in the cemetery.’

Diego looked at her with the unnerving certainty of a child. ‘I know, Ma. But he comes back when you’re sad. He told me he likes to watch us. He said Lila looks like a flower.’

Corazon forced a smile. ‘That’s just your imagination, anak. You miss your papa, that’s all. Now, go back and sit beside Lila.’ But Diego didn’t move. He shook his head. ‘Papa said to let her be. He’ll catch her if she falls.’

That night, as Corazon tucked Diego into his bed, she asked him again about Papa. Diego’s eyes grew heavy. ‘He’s not here now, Ma. He only comes when the rain is about to fall. When it’s dry, he’s with the plants.’

Corazon didn’t sleep. She lay in her bed, listening to the wind stirring the coconut fronds, waiting for the rain that never came. The next day, she called the village elder, a man named Mang Ben who was known for his knowledge of the old ways. She told him what Diego had said. Mang Ben nodded slowly, his face grim. ‘He’s not a bad spirit,’ he said. ‘He’s just a father who can’t let go. You must be careful. If he tries to take the child, he’ll cross over fully. You must make him leave.’

But how could she make Miguel leave? She missed him too. She found herself talking to the empty papag, apologizing to the ghost she couldn’t see. Diego began to talk to the empty space more often, having one-sided conversations. Once, she saw him laughing, and then he said, ‘Papa says you used to sing a song about the river. He says you forgot the words.’

Corazon’s heart ached. She had sung that song in the early days of their marriage, but she had forgotten it long ago. She started to hum it, the melody coming back to her. A cold breeze swept through the hut, though the windows were closed. She felt a presence, gentle as a touch on her cheek. ‘Miguel?’ she whispered. No answer, but the wind seemed to sigh.

Weeks passed. Rainy season came, and the paddy turned green. The presence in the house grew stronger. Diego began to sleepwalk, wandering toward the papag. Lila, too, would stare at a corner of the room, giggling at nothing. Corazon started to see a faint silhouette from the corner of her eye—a man’s shape, sitting on the papag, humming. She never turned fast enough to catch it.

One night, a violent storm lashed the village. The wind howled, and the roof threatened to tear off. Corazon jolted awake to find Diego standing beside the baby’s cradle, his eyes wide. ‘Papa says the rain is heavy,’ he whispered. ‘He says we should go to the papag, where it’s safe.’

Corazon grabbed both children, her heart pounding. She clutched them to her chest, feeling a sudden coldness around her. ‘Miguel, if you’re here, please, leave us alone,’ she pleaded. ‘We need to live.’

A voice—soft, clear, like a distant echo—whispered in her ear, ‘I only wanted to watch them grow. I couldn’t bear to go.’ Corazon wept. ‘I know. But you have to. They need me, and I need to move on.’

The wind died down. The house grew still. And in that silence, Corazon felt the presence lift, like a mist evaporating in the morning sun.

The next day, the sun rose over the paddy, and the world was fresh and clean. Diego came to her, rubbing his eyes. ‘Papa’s gone,’ he said simply. ‘He said he found a river to cross.’ Corazon hugged him tightly. From then on, the papag remained empty, and Lila grew up without ever remembering the man who had watched over her in those early months.

But my grandmother would always say, ‘When a child speaks of the dead, listen. For they can see what we cannot.’ And she would look at the papag in her own home, a piece of bamboo furniture that had been passed down from Corazon’s family, and smile sadly. She claimed that on rainy nights, you could still hear a faint humming from the papag, a lullaby without words, but if you listened closely, you could feel a father’s lingering love, a love that had finally found the way to let go.