This eulogy was delivered by Bambi Harper’s granddaughter at her funeral. Harper—cultural writer, historian, heritage conservationist and former Inquirer columnist—died Aug. 4 at the age of 82.

Born Anna Maria Lammoglia on Jan. 10, 1941, she served as president of the Heritage Conservation Society of the Philippines, a commissioner of Unesco and an administrator of the Intramuros Administration. She was also a novelist.

In life, we share different sides of ourselves with several people. Whether or not the facets of the personalities of the people we interact with are true is completely dependent on the persons themselves. Because they alone can define their truth, and we can only catch a glimpse of the ripples of the vast lake that is their soul.

A lot of you knew her as a writer, a historian, a model, a sister, a friend and a mother. And from the speeches of the past weekend, I managed to catch a further glimpse of her complexity. Today, as a final note, the last hurrah and what have you, I will share with you what is possibly her most humble side. Abu.

I don’t know the Anna Maria or Bambi you speak of. I don’t know much about the untouchable, venerable and shining emerald that inspired and warmed the hearts of about two generations of Filipinos, as evidenced by the people attending this funeral.

By the time I came into existence, most of her story had been lived out. By then, she was essentially a female Gandalf living peacefully in the cluttered yet whimsical abode that was her Park Lane apartment. I suppose that would make Senny, her trusted caretaker, Tom Bombadil. But instead of a cordial talk that lasted years until she departed for the Undying Lands, it was more a lengthy back-and-forth lighthearted quarrel about how Senny was deaf, and how Abu was always muttering.

Heartbreak

If I could describe Abu, I would liken her to a cat. She didn’t like cats, but she was quite feline in behavior. She had a dry wit that served as her fangs, had gray and white hair similar to a Ragdoll cat, and eyes that could break into a stare of grouchy disapproval that is no different from the judgmental ire of the pets she preferred not to have. Because, according to her—in the exact words she said to me—their passing away would just add more heartbreak to life. And, well, you can say she was right. Abu’s gone now, and she did add more heartbreak to life. But like any beloved cat, no matter how grumpy or skittish they are, she also added joy.

Ever since I could remember, Sunday was the day to spend time with Abu. She always called me sweetie or ging even though I wasn’t particularly sweet or girlish— far from it. I was a hard-headed, tomboyish and hyper little child that wanted Jollibee over paella.

I’ve learned to have much more refined tastes, but I remember her indulging me in the request, not taking offense or batting an eye about it. At some point, she’d gently squeeze me by my chubby baby arm and said she understood, smiling kindly. Sometimes, you just want the finer things in life.

And perhaps that was sarcasm. But I choose to look at it through a different lens. My Abu, the one I know, wasn’t exactly grandiose. She was a regular, everyday type of person. She liked to rattle on about the shows on her television, talk about politics with my dad, fret over the love lives of her children that chose to remain single (hello, Uncle John), and talk with me about my budding interest in writing.

Finer things in life

She loved to encourage me. She was the one who signed me up for those summer writing workshops in whatever prestigious college was holding one during the year. She was the one ringing up the phone of my dad and my mom, asking how I did, how I was, and if she could have a copy of what I wrote. I felt shy most of the time—feeling no better from another penny in the fountain, tossed in with a bunch of other pennies thinking the light would shine on them, and they’d catch the lucky break.

Of course, I have ambition. I’m a Harper. But I think we’ve all had that point in our lives where we didn’t feel good enough, that we were wasting our time, and it would’ve been better off to not have tried at all.

Abu didn’t treat me like that. Abu ate up most of my stuff like Walt Whitman had risen from the dead and published a brand-new poem, instead of it being the school prose assignment of the week. Honestly, she was a little crazy. Kooky. But in a fun way. She enjoyed the thrill of the writing process. She enjoyed the art of it and motivated me further by sharing works of her own and asking me—someone who was just a kid—if I had any opinions or comments on how to improve what she wrote.

I think that’s what she meant about the finer things in life. Things didn’t have to be perfect like a planned paella meal. The finer thing could’ve been the Jollibee meal, her incredulous laugh when I dipped my fries into the gravy (for those who have not tried such an insane thing, I highly suggest you do it as soon as possible), the smile she had when I was smiling, and how she decided to dig into the chicken since that was her favorite.

Maybe the finer thing was the happiness we shared, no matter how plain the activity was, the mutual understanding that resonated between us, and how it was a moment of vulnerable authenticity in a sea of coordinated social gatherings. Just two strange souls bonding over strange things. Nevertheless, the strangeness was fun. It was beautiful, even.

I’m going to miss her. I know we’re all going to miss her. But she’s in a better place now. In the Undying Lands with the Elves. With the ones she loved. I hope she tells Grandpa about me. It would’ve been nice to see if he was a little crazy, too. Crazy, but brilliant like her.

Goodbye, Abu. Until we meet again. I’m sorry I never got to read you any of my stories when you were in the hospital because we were all stressing out about keeping you okay. But I hope this makes up for it if you’re listening.

—Contributed