Tabi Po

Hardened sand crunched beneath their feet as they approached the shoreline. A humid moonlit night, it was a few minutes past midnight. Briny wind whipped through their hair, welcoming them. Two friends, sisters, soul mates. Joyce sat down first, tucking her legs beneath her. Waves gently lapping at her toes. She reached over her shoulder to bring her canvas tote bag to her lap and opened it, pulling out sticks, berries, ginger, cloves, and anise in one hand and set a glass jar in another. “Tabi po,” she said to the sea, which responded kindly. Gentle waves pushed towards her, allowing for Joyce to capture and fill the jar a little more than half full. 

Miranda followed. Sinking to her knees and joining her friend. She put her hands together as if in prayer, pointer fingers and thumbs touching her face from nose to forehead. “Maraming salamat po sa pakikinig,” she said to the ocean. Miranda grasped the halfway filled jar that Joyce handed her, filled the rest of it, and handed it back. Joyce dropped the berries and spices into the jar and closed it tightly. They clasped hands, Joyce’s eyes prickled as she fought back tears. A sniffle escaped from Miranda. They helped each other up, Miranda’s knees groaned, reminding her they were old. Joyce’s hips ached the same way. Joyce turned towards the beach, and tossed the canvas tote on to the sand. She held out her hand again to Miranda, who clasped it tightly.

Together, they began their march into the sea, which welcomed them, lovingly. The three of them, old friends and close confidants. The ocean, her waves, her breezes were their protectors. It hid them and their families during times of turmoil, and it blessed them with fortitude and abundance. They shared their lives with the water, its brine offering safe birthing for generations. Tonight, a safe passage to Heaven. 

Joyce led the ritual, the waves fell into their role as psychopomp. Miranda looked towards the sky, the ocean’s spray caressing the long lines and wrinkles of her years. A gust of wind wrapped its tendrils around the nape of her neck, reaching up to tussle her hair. She laughed, at least God blessed her with strong black hair that only allowed for a few grays. “We love you, Anak,” they whispered to her. “You are safe.” 

Miranda turned to face Joyce, whose face had reddened and was swollen with tears. Miranda pulled their clasped hands up to her face to wipe a stray tear, fearing if she let go, Joyce would proceed with the ritual a little too quickly. Joyce held tightly to their totem with her free hand. “You better fucking haunt me, Ate,” said Joyce to the person who had been her best friend for over three quarters of a century. Miranda responded, “remember that time that ferry sank in Mindanao?” Joyce looked at her closest friend, then tilted her head back and cackled, “Yeah, what a shitty day! We almost died! Good thing your ass can swim.” They looked at each other, Miranda taking in the moment, erasing the decades that hung on Joyce’s face, and Joyce doing the same in return. Eighty-something years together. Inseparable. From running barefoot around Talairon to chasing jeepneys in Manila, to their first plane ride ever to the States, Joyce and Miranda spent every major moment in each other’s lives together. They served as god mothers to their children, and grannies to their children’s children. Joyce had driven Miranda to her doctor’s appointment the day she was informed she was no longer in remission, and listened to her justify her decision not to seek further treatment. “I’m tired, Joy,” she said while sitting in the comically large SUV Joyce’s daughter bought her, “the drugs make me feel like I want to die anyway, and I don’t want to wither and become a husk.”

But for this journey, Joyce could only take Miranda so far before Miranda would have to continue alone. They shuffled a little further, waves lapping at their belly buttons, their jean shorts submerged. Clumps of seaweed brushing against their legs. A chill current snaked its way along their ankles. The moon shone above them, its heavy glow illuminated the waves for miles. They planted their feet in the sand, both wiggling their toes, relishing its grit. Joyce stole a look at Miranda, who had closed her eyes, head tilted back, mouthing a silent prayer. She took the chance to whisper her own prayer, “please guide her safely,” she said to the ocean, “please remember to visit,” meant for her friend. 

They stood in the shallows for a few more moments, hearing gentle crashing from the waves, the wind picking up as a soft reminder that the moon’s apex had begun to wane. The water in the glass jar swished, its contents tapping along its sides. Miranda squeezed Joyce’s hand. She was ready. 

Miranda and Joyce faced each other, giving one more squeeze before letting go. Miranda laid back on to the surf, allowing her legs to float to the surface. Joyce guided her friend, putting her arm around Miranda’s shoulders, then handing her the totem. Miranda floated perpendicular to Joyce, who moved towards her belly. Joyce placed one arm under Miranda’s back, and the other behind her knees. Joyce pivoted the two of them away from the beach, facing the moon. Miranda closed her eyes while Joyce lifted her face and began to pray. She prayed for a pleasant journey, and for the strength to continue living until it was her time. She thanked God for bringing them together so long ago and for the love between them and their families. The water around them answered their plea of comfort, ensuring the surf stayed warm and calm. A westerly wind nudged them deeper, the moon appeared to lower itself in the sky, welcoming its friend home. Their tears streamed down their faces, and while Joyce focused her energy on guiding Miranda towards home, Miranda had started her part of the ritual.

Miranda, floating in Joyce’s arms, began her chant. She offered her body in exchange for protection for her family and Joyce’s family. Her chant, the Minudar, started breathy and with every iteration, she grew louder and stronger. Her voice became melodic in between sobs. Joyce joined in the chant, offering her own vow of protection as Miranda crossed over. Chanting for her soul’s safe journey. Still clutching the jar, Miranda twisted the lip open and poured out its contents onto her chest. Anise, cloves, two sticks from the bushes right outside her house, berries and ginger from Safeway, and ocean water that was collected by the two friends coated her. This way the moon could never lose her on her journey.

A wave pushed the two further out to sea, as if to say “we can take her from here,” and Joyce nodded. She treaded water, her five-foot stature now having to swim to her friend. Joyce took one more look at Miranda’s face, her body, now emitting a soft glow. A lovely bioluminescent touch. She planted a soft kiss on Miranda’s forehead, tears falling freely. “I love you, Ate. Gihigugma ko ikaw.” Miranda trembled in response, squeaking out an “I love you so much. I’ll see you soon,” her voice cracking as the wind and the waves began to pick up. Joyce, in turn, started being pushed back to shore, her responsibilities in the ritual complete.

Joyce swam slowly back to the beach, keeping an eye on Miranda for as long as she could. The soft glow that surrounded Miranda dimmed as she floated towards the moon. Even though they were thousands of miles away from the town they were born in, a new, delicate scent of mango blossoms perfumed the air around her. The winds shifted, blowing eastward now, as if they came from across the Pacific. She knew her friend was gone and had drifted home, cared for by the moon and the ocean. The same ocean they’d played in as children, then flew over in their twenties. Now, this ocean completed their earthly cycle together and had guided Miranda home. 

Joyce crawled out of the water and sat at the shoreline, burying her feet in the sand. She rested her elbows on her knees, and set her head down. Soft sobs offered little comfort. She was soaked and cold, but she wanted to stay until the moon made way for the sun. She shivered in her old, cracked skin. Her new hip feeling as if it had rusted over. Her hair, now stringy with salt, drying slowly in dense clumps. She reached into her tote bag for the shorts, shirt, and sweater she’d packed and changed. Her old fingers had trouble putting her hair up, arthritic and bony, so she left it loose. She reached into her bag once again and pulled out her thermos and took a sip. Yesterday’s sinigang. Miranda’s final meal.

She picked up her phone and called Miranda’s granddaughter. “Okay, Nak,” using a childish nickname, “you can join me now.”

Jocelyn, Miranda’s granddaughter, eight months pregnant waddled down the shallow dunes about ten minutes later. She sat next to her Tita, rubbing her belly. Sitting in silence, they waited, watching the moon drift across the sky. They listened to the rustling of palm trees and the waves crashing, knowing the tide would come in and they would have to move a few feet back. Jocelyn offered tea and began humming Miranda’s chant. Joyce joined the chant, her voice growing stronger, a vibrato to the ocean. And just as the moon drifted away and the stars dimmed, and the purples and pinks of morning came about, a third, ethereal voice joined in.