THERMODYNAMIC LAW states that energy cannot be created nor destroyed, only transferred or changed from one state or form to another. I was never much of a scientist, so allow me to share with you my own abstract interpretation of this: My grandfather passed away in October of 2020, and I’ve missed him every day since.
His name was Jose Armando R. Melo, but I just knew him as Lolo. Unquestionably the most colorful person I have ever gotten the privilege of knowing, my Lolo was a man of unblemished character set apart from everyone else by his love for family. He could make a joke out of anything, recite by heart poetry he learned as a child, and dip nearly anything into chocolate and find it delicious. An avid reader of history and politics, Lolo loved to share his books with his grandchildren, he was also a big fan of movies featuring drama, shootouts, and gore.
Most of all, Lolo loved my grandmother—Nana—above everything else. He called her his best friend, provided her with his greatest jokes, and did absolutely everything with her. Quite simply, Lolo could find happiness in all things.
Ever since he passed, I have had the recurring fear of forgetting what Lolo’s voice sounded like. I am undeniably afraid of becoming a stranger to the sound of Lolo’s heartily full laugh—to the point that my memories of him become eternally silent. While I do have dozens, hundreds of pictures with Lolo, I have struggled to make peace with the reality that I will never get to talk to my grandfather again.
In fact, the only place where I get to talk to Lolo is in my dreams. There have been multiple instances wherein my subconscious has brought Lolo to me—to talk politics, share jokes, give advice, or simply just smile my way. I’d like to believe that this is more than just the natural workings of my subconscious, that this is actually Lolo and me finding a way to talk.
I guess this is where thermodynamics comes into play.
While it may seem fruitless, I would like to hold on to the hope that just a fraction of Lolo’s earthly energy was left as fuel for my dreams. This very abstract notion of energy—vastly different from the conventional scientific view of the matter, I know—is what reassures me that I won’t forget, that I can’t forget.
I feel Lolo’s presence in the day-to-day. I bask in the warmth of his gaze when I flip through his annotated copies of Kissinger, Hamilton, and Brown; I feel his excitement when I look up at the vast array of his books that I have yet to explore. Whiffs of his perfume surround me when I sit on his chair, and I get visions of early morning tee-offs and hot chocolate—memories that aren’t mine—whenever I walk by his golf set.
It is in this sense that thermodynamic law—or my hopeful interpretation of it, at least—works in my favor. Whatever keeps this universe going is what allows me to be comforted by the sense that my grandfather will still be there to laugh as I alternate between tripping and breezing through life. Even if all reason and logic point to it, I refuse to believe in the notion that the only thing left of Lolo in this world is his urn at the columbarium.
How can this be true if his voice rings off in my ears whenever I wear his watches? How can the world be so devoid of Lolo if I am able to witness the continued impacts of his love on Nana whenever she says hello to his pictures or remembers his jokes? To tell anyone that their deceased loved ones have left no traces of them behind in this world is as futile as telling a blind man that color doesn’t exist.
Yes, Lolo is gone. I do acknowledge that, and his physical absence is felt by the whole family every single day. Yet to languish in the doom and gloom of his passing is a habit that I have been working on breaking.
Even while writing this, I am not saddened by the idea of a world completely without Lolo. No such thing exists.
