The room smelled like the pomade Grandpa put on his hair the moment he got out of the shower. The vines he used to trim in the mornings had crawled to the grills on the windows from the rusty gate where he stood by as he watched me and my cousins play hide-and-seek along Almond Drive on Sunday afternoons. Mama was cleaning out his medicine box when I realized all the containers had not been emptied out. Uncle carried the plump luggage to the top of the closet filled with naked hangers. Grandma could not seem to fold the blanket on his bed the way he used to do it- corner to corner, edge to edge. Tony Orlando started squeaking when the CD player played “Tie A Yellow Ribbon,” but Grandma listened and danced with the air in the same way she danced with Grandpa at the wedding reception of their golden anniversary. I hold this scarf that he wrapped himself in as he sat on his wheelchair one windy afternoon when we drove him to the beach. Nobody dared to sit on the rocking chair in the balcony where he used to nap during sunny days that reminded him, he said, of the Panglao beaches where he used to play when he was young. But now he’s rested somewhere peaceful, where I could no longer massage his feet as he rocked himself to sleep.