HANDMADE LABOR OF LOVE

To my Papa, for manually cracking and meticulously picking apart crabs for me, the ultimate handmade labor of love.

- By JONAH LLAVE

(Art by JASMINE CABRILES)

Growing up in a family of OFWs meant twice the celebrations. We came up with all sorts of excuses to gather and share a meal, savoring every moment we had together before being apart once again. In these tiny moments where we were blessed to be whole, my family never shied away from spending a little more on food. We were never really affectionate

or vocal with our love, but food has always been the safest language of love we all could agree on. From my Papa’s kilos upon kilos of chocolate pasalubong to appease my sweet tooth to my kuya’s love letters in the form of tea boxes that I mentioned I liked once, or the passed-down family recipes ever-present on our table.

We said “I love you” through our hands that prepared it and graciously accepted it through our stomachs. Through every single one of these holiday celebrations, three things always remained present: my Papa, my favorite boiled crabs, and a noisy house filled with my extended family. Nowadays, however, occasions look a little different.

Every first of November, individuals flock towards their loved ones’ final resting place — to remember, mourn and simply linger in their grief. Amidst the sea of curated bouquets and candlelit columbary, I stand with a petite cake and a birthday candle, singing softly in front of my Papa. On such a solemn day, I choose to celebrate his birth rather than his departure.