Adios, Tito Agustin

Whenever my Mom calls me up early in the morning (Atlanta time, of course), it's either she's homesick, or there's bad news. The fact that she called me up at 5:30pm, (that's 5:30 am where she lives), made me a bit worried.

Her voice didn't sound odd, but I could tell she just woke up. She started with the usual "how are you's" and "aren't you glad to be home? Thinking you're there makes me homesick." Then just as things were cruising at a normal pace, the words finally came out of her mouth.

"Tito Agustin passed away already."

Tito Agustin is my favorite uncle. He lives in Barcelona with Tita Evelyn and my four cousins and is one of the reasons why I love visiting Spain. He's this very jolly fellow: tall, big and round, bald to the degree that he has no hair and no eyebrows, too, and always has a big smile to share with everyone.


Growing up, it was hard to miss Tito Agustin. He was like a cross between Kojak and Santa Claus. Whenever he's in Manila and we'd go to Manila Hotel for lunch or dinner, the kids outside would call him: "Kalbo, kalbo!" His answer, in his Spanish-accented Tagalog would always be: "Di bale. Guwapo naman ako." And we'd all laugh out loud.

He treated all of us - 24 nephews and nieces in all - like his own children. Everytime his family would visit from Spain, all 24 of us would have new shoes, new clothes, new toys and bags of gummi bears and turrones de jijona. And that made him really, really popular with the Morales kids.

Their visits were few and far between. Maybe once in 3 to 5 years. But each time they came back, it felt like they were there all along. That's how strong their presence was.

I have many fond childhood memories with Tito Agustin. Like how often we'd have lunch at Esperanza's with Tita Evelyn and Yoly. How he'd love to go to hotels and listen to bands. Whenever they'd go to the disco, he'd bring me along - despite the fact that I was 10 years old. I once overheard him saying the word "condom" to my uncle, and when i asked him what "condom" was, he said it was short for "condominium." And because of that, I used to call condominiums, well, condoms.

Imagine me saying: "I heard Marj lives in a really huge condom."

And those memories kept on pouring in even in my adulthood. How he'd always worry about me getting lost in Barcelona's subways. Even if he had work at their restaurant, he'd take a few hours off to drive me off to the Miro and Dali Museums. How he showed me the fort where Jose Rizal was imprisoned in Barcelona. Then when Roland and I stayed with them, he'd make sure that Roland felt comfortable and treated him like family. I remember Roland telling me that he feels at home with Tito Agustin more than he does with his own family. That to me says a lot about his caring, nurturing character.

Like many cancer battles, Tito Agustin's was a short but well-fought battle. We found out about his condition less than a year ago, and less than 6 months after his last visit to Manila. He was brave enough to make a joke about it, saying: "I'm not afraid of chemotherapy. I've got no hair to lose anyway." Everyone, especially our family, was hoping that he'd pull through and respond to treatments.

But he didn't. According to Tita, the last month was very difficult for him. He was in and and out of the hospital. Dependent on his morphine shots which oftentimes just wasn't enough. Tito was a shadow of his tall, round bodied, jolly self. This was the Tito I would have seen if he'd still be alive by the time I visit Barcelona next March.

But I won't be able to see him anymore. I won't be able to hear his reminder to take care when riding the train and go down at "Les Corts" station. I won't be able to hear him call me: "Hoy, payat!" There won't be that jolly, boisterous laughter when we'd have lunch at that Italian restaurant across their apartment. And there won't be a Tito Agustin to meet me and see me off at the airport.

After Mom told us, Ate Lissa and I talked about it, and maybe it's good that we didn't see Tito Agustin in his frail and weak state. He wouldn't have wanted that. Like Tita Lon, he would have wanted his nephews to remember him as who he was, not who has become after battling cancer.

He would have wanted us to remember him as the jolly, kalbo, Castillian Tito who had an infectious laugh and spoke near perfect Tagalog - albeit with a Spanish accent. And that's how I remember him. In my heart, that's how I'll always remember him.

Vaya con dios, Tito Agustin. Descanso en Paz. Nunca te Olvidate.