Binibining Ninja

Dear Tito,

People often ask if I remember you.

The truth is...

I don't remember everything.

I don't remember the sound of your voice,

or the way your hand felt holding mine.

I can't recall the last time you carried me,

or the games we played when I was four.

Time was too young for me,

and I was too young for time.

But somehow...

I never forgot you.

Because my mom never let me.

She spoke your name

as if you had only stepped outside.

She smiled whenever she told me

how happy you were to see me.

Sometimes she laughed.

Sometimes she cried.

Most times, she did both.

She told me

that if she ever had to leave me with someone,

there were only two people

she trusted without fear—

my dad...

and you.

As I grew older,

I finally understood

that this was never just about trust.

It was about love.

The kind of love

that doesn't need to be announced.

The kind that quietly shows up,

protects,

waits,

and stays.

Mom told me

you were one of her very few *kakampi*.

When life became too heavy,

you helped carry it.

When she felt alone,

she knew she wasn't.

I wish I had been old enough

to remember all of that for myself.

I wish I could tell you

about the person I've become.

I wish I could thank you

for loving me

before I was old enough

to know what love looked like.

But maybe...

you already know.

Because every story Mom told,

every picture she kept,

every tear she refused to hide,

became another memory

she handed to me.

They weren't my memories at first.

They were hers.

Until one day...

they became mine.

So if anyone asks me

whether I remember my Tito,

I'll tell them this:

I may not remember every moment we shared.

But I know, without a doubt,

that I was deeply loved by a man

who never got the chance

to watch me grow.

And somehow...

that has always been enough

to make me miss you.

Thank you for loving me

when I was too little

to remember.

Because thanks to Mom,

I never had to.

I hope that wherever you are, Tito, you know this:

There is a little boy

whose hands once fit perfectly in yours,

too young to understand

that some goodbyes arrive too soon.

One day, he may not remember

the sound of your laughter,

the warmth of your embrace,

or the afternoons that passed so quietly

they never thought they would become memories.

And that is the part that breaks me.

Not because your love was small,

but because he was only four—

an age where memories are written in sand,

beautiful, yet so easily carried away by time.

So I will remember for him.

I will tell him how your eyes softened

every time you saw him.

How you loved him without asking for anything in return.

How I could leave him in your care

without a single worry in my heart.

I will tell him that among the people I trusted most,

you stood beside his father.

That when life felt heavy,

you were one of my very few *kakampi*.

He will know your kindness

through the stories I tell.

He will know your laughter

through the videos we keep.

He will know your heart

through the love you left behind.

Perhaps he won't remember your voice,

but he will remember your name.

Perhaps he won't remember your hands holding his,

but he will know they held him with love.

And perhaps, when he is old enough to ask,

"Mom, what was my Tito like?"

I will smile through my tears and say,

"He was the kind of man

who made us feel safe.

The kind of man

who loved you long before you could remember it.

The kind of brother

whose absence we still feel,

because his presence was a gift."

So rest now.

I will carry your stories

until my son is strong enough

to carry them with me.

And as long as I have breath,

you will never become

someone he never knew.

Because love is stronger than memory.

Even when memories fade,

Convo with Chatgpt:

I'm really sorry you're carrying this. Losing someone who wasn't just family, but one of your very few *kakampi*—someone who made you feel you weren't alone—is a different kind of grief. It doesn't only leave you missing the person; it can make the world feel less safe.

From what you've shared with me before, your brother's death affected you deeply. I also remember you talking about the guilt you felt over some things you said to him, and how surprised you were by the number of people whose lives he had touched. That tells me your relationship with him was real, complicated, and full of love.

The truth is, "moving on" may not be the right goal. Most people who experience a significant loss don't erase it or get over it. Instead, they gradually learn how to carry it without it weighing on every moment of every day.

A few things that may help:

* **Allow yourself to miss your kakampi.** You don't have to pretend you're okay just because time has passed. Grief doesn't follow a schedule.

* **Let go of the idea that your last conversations define your relationship.** Every close relationship has disagreements and regrets. The fact that you feel guilty says you cared. It doesn't erase the years of love, support, and shared memories.

* **Keep your bond alive in a healthy way.** Talk to him when you need to. Write him letters. Continue something he cared about. Remembering someone isn't the same as being unable to move forward.

* **Lean on the people who also loved him.** You were surprised by how many people came to his wake and shared stories. Those people didn't just come for him—they can also become part of the support system he left behind.

* **Give yourself permission to laugh and enjoy life again.** Feeling moments of happiness isn't leaving him behind. It's something many people struggle with after a loss, but loving someone and living your life can exist together.

You asked how to move on after losing one of your very few *kakampi*. Maybe the answer isn't to replace him. Maybe it's to carry what made him your *kakampi*—his encouragement, his presence, the lessons he taught you—and let those become part of how you keep going.

One thing you wrote to me before has stayed with me: you realized that your brother was loved by far more people than you expected. Despite everything, he left behind kindness that people remembered. That means his life continues to matter through the people he influenced—including you.

Can I ask you something?

When you say he was your *kakampi*, what is it that you miss the most? Is it having someone who understood you, someone you could rely on, or simply having *him* there?

My Answer: simply having him here

That answer makes a lot of sense.

Sometimes it isn't advice, support, or even conversation that we miss. It's just **their existence**. Knowing they're in the next room. Being able to send them a message. Hearing them laugh. Having the comfort of thinking, *"Andiyan lang siya."*

When someone like that is gone, the silence can feel unbearable. There isn't really anything that fills that exact space.

I also think it's important to say this: because he was one of your very few *kakampi*, you're not just grieving a brother. You're grieving one of the people who made you feel less alone. That's why the loss can feel so overwhelming.

There may be days when something good happens and your first thought is, *"I should tell him."* Then, a second later, you remember you can't. That's one of the hardest parts of grief—not the memories themselves, but the moments when your mind still expects them to be here.

You once shared with me that you were surprised by how many people came to his wake and told stories about him. You also carried guilt over things you had said to him. Reading all of that together, what stands out is this: your relationship was real. Real relationships aren't perfect. They include arguments, worries, and words we wish we could take back. They also include years of love that aren't erased by those moments.

If he could see you now, I don't think he would want you to spend the rest of your life replaying the things you regret. The person you described—the one whose kindness so many people remembered—would probably want his *kakampi* to keep living.

You don't have to stop talking to him, either.

When you miss him, you can still say, "Kuya, today was hard," or, "I wish you were here." It may sound simple, but many grieving people find comfort in keeping that bond instead of trying to force themselves to let go.

One day, the pain probably won't disappear, but it will change. Instead of crying every time you think of him, you may find yourself smiling first, then missing him. That isn't forgetting him. It's love finding a different place to live.

And if I may say one more thing:

The way you've spoken about him over the past weeks tells me that he wasn't just your brother. He was part of what made "home" feel like home. Losing someone like that changes you. It's okay if you're not the same person you were before.

You don't have to carry this by yourself every day. Whenever you feel like talking about him—whether it's a funny memory, something that reminds you of him, or just how much you wish he were still here—I'm here to listen. Tell me about him. What was something he did that would instantly make you laugh?

My concern: He is someone I could entrust my one and only son, aside from my son's father. I hope my son won't forget him and every simple thing he did for him. How can a 4-year old remember all those memories? I really want my son to remember him as he grows.

That is such a loving concern, and it's one many parents have after losing someone important.

At four years old, your son may not remember every event or conversation as he gets older. That's simply how early childhood memory works. But that doesn't mean your brother will disappear from his life. A child's memories are often shaped by the stories they're told, the photos they see, and the love that continues to surround those memories.

You don't have to rely on your son's memory alone. You can become the keeper of those memories until he's old enough to carry them himself.

Here are some ideas:

* **Tell stories often.** Not just on anniversaries. If your son does something that reminds you of your brother, you can say, "Your Tito used to do that too," or "Your Tito loved it when you laughed like that." Hearing those stories repeatedly helps children build a lasting picture of someone they may not fully remember on their own.

* **Make a memory box.** Put in photos, handwritten notes, birthday cards, or small things that remind you of your brother. If there's a toy they played with together, a cap he wore, or anything meaningful, keep it. One day, your son can open it with you.

* **Write letters to your son.** While your memories are still fresh, write about the little things you don't want to lose:

* How his Tito carried him.

* The way he looked at him.

* The silly games they played.

* The things your brother said about him.

* Why you trusted your brother so deeply.

Those details are precious because they're the ones that tend to fade with time.

* **Share videos, not just photos.** Hearing your brother's voice and seeing his expressions can help your son feel like he knows him, even years from now.

* **Keep him part of family conversations.** Let your son grow up hearing, "Your Tito loved you so much," instead of speaking about him only in sadness.

What touched me most in what you wrote wasn't just that your brother loved your son. It was this:

> *He is someone I could entrust my one and only son to.*

That says everything about who your brother was in your eyes. Trust like that is rare. Your son may eventually forget specific moments, but he can grow up knowing something even more important: that he had an uncle who loved him deeply, and whom his mother trusted with her most precious person.

One day, your son might ask, "What was Tito like?"

And because you're preserving these memories now, you'll be able to answer with confidence—not just, "He was a good man," but with stories that make him real.

You might say:

> "Whenever I left you with your Tito, I never worried. I knew you were safe, loved, and cared for. That's how much I trusted him."

Children may not remember every hug they received at four years old, but they can grow up knowing they were deeply loved. That knowledge becomes part of who they are.

I also want to gently encourage you to do one thing soon: write down every memory you can think of today. Even the tiny ones that seem ordinary—the way your brother greeted your son, the nicknames he used, how they played together, the snacks he bought him, the look on his face when he saw him. Those are often the memories we fear we'll always remember, yet they're the ones that quietly fade over the years.

Years from now, when your son is 10, 15, or even an adult, those pages will become one of the greatest gifts you can give him. They'll allow him to know not only *who* his Tito was, but *how much he was loved by him*.