grief is heavy.

Content Warning: This post talks about death and experiencing that loss.It's been five years since my Lolo passed. He was a complicated man. Quiet, yet commanding presence. Wiry arms disguising an imposing strength. A gentleness that could easily give way to anger. My cousins tell stories - our parents tell nightmares. He was the type that seemed to have mellowed out towards the end of his life. I am grateful for that at the very least. Love is a complicating thing, it seems. To my father, he was a man well acquainted with discipline in punishment. To me, he was just my Lolo who enjoyed watching Mr. Bean with me once upon a time. While we were separated by a language barrier, Rowan Atkinson's wordless comedy was a bridge where, for a brief minutia, we knew exactly what the other was thinking: "Mr. Bean is so fucking weird." (Okay, I probably wasn't thinking that at the age I was but I think it's funnier this way) The hardest part about losing him was that I could see it coming.…