Farewell, Tatang — Until We Meet Again

In loving memory of Napoleon Corpuz Sabado
December 12, 1933 – August 12, 2026

Last Thursday night, back home in the Philippines, my grandfather quietly left this world.

We called him Tatang — the way we Ilocanos on my mother's side call the man at the head of the family. And though the miles between us were always long, the grief of losing him is very, very close.

A face I didn't see often enough

We grew up in Cebu City, far from Tatang's home in Mindanao. So I only saw him a handful of times in my life — brief visits, scattered years apart. My children were luckier than me. My mother would bring them along whenever she traveled home for vacation, and so my kids came to know their great-grandfather far better than I ever did.

I used to think there would always be a next time. There's a photo of us from the 1980s — me, just a small boy, sitting beside him in that old wooden house, the radio on the shelf, the framed pictures behind us. I was too young then to understand how few of those moments I would actually get.

The day he got lost — just to find me

The last time I saw Tatang was at my wedding, in Palompon, Leyte, in the year 2000.

He came alone. All that way, by himself. And somewhere along the journey he even got lost — an old man, far from his own province, trying to find an unfamiliar town. But he didn't turn back. He kept going until he found the right place, because nothing was going to stop him from being there for his grandson's wedding.

I've been thinking about that a lot these past few days. That was who he was. A man who would travel far, get lost, and still find his way — all for love.

The regret I carry now

After that wedding, I built my own family. I became an OFW. And somehow, in all the years of working and providing and chasing a better life, I never made it back to Mindanao to visit him.

I regret that with my whole heart.

And now, even at the very end, I still cannot go home. The tension here in the Gulf makes travel hard, and the tickets are far beyond what I can manage right now. So I sit here, so far away, unable to stand at his side one last time. This is the ache I will carry.

If you're reading this and feeling my regret — please, hear me. Go home. Visit the ones you love while they are still alive. Don't wait for the "right time" or the "next vacation." Time doesn't wait for us, and some doors close before we're ready.

Grace in the grief

But I also know Tatang would not want me drowning in self-blame.

The man who traveled alone and got lost just to reach my wedding would not want his grandson lost in guilt. He would want that same love carried forward — to my children, to their children, to the family he helped begin.

So I'm choosing to let my regret become a lesson instead of a wound. To love the people still in front of me louder, closer, and sooner. That is how I will honor him.

"And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain."

I find comfort in this: our goodbye is not the end of the story. It is only "until."

Until we meet again

Thank you, Tatang, for the life you lived and the family you built. Thank you for that long, lonely journey to my wedding — I understand now what it meant. Thank you for loving us across every mile.

I'm sorry I couldn't come home. But I carry you with me, and I always will.

Rest now. Rest well.

Farewell, our Tatang. Until we meet again.

In loving memory of my grandfather. If this touched your heart, hold your loved ones a little closer today — and if you can go home to them, go.

— Rise & Reset Co.