Why I refuse to speak to my sister

Because the last time that we talked, she was in her bathroom, washing clothes because washing clothes  was more important to her than talking to me. Just talk because I'm washing clothes, she said in a dismissive tone, as if what I was about to tell her was something that would only need half her attention, like when you tell her, hey, I'm going to the market, do you need something for me to buy? No, that was not the kind I was trying to talk about. In my mind, I revised and reviewed several ways to tell her how I knew she was ostracising me, her kind of a power play, something that I saw other people do to me countless of times but never expected it from a family member.  Also, I wanted to ask her if she was talking about me in front of my boy? Why is my boy behaving like that? But I did not know how to bring this up so I talked about other things and realised we were replaying scenes we did in childhood; her being allowed to do everything she liked with impunity while I was not allowed to complain because I was older by one year and five months. Every time she did something to me, Ma, who was now in her sickbed, said I should not complain because I was the older one, I should just let my sisters be because they were younger. 

So, while she was yelling at me, "you always have what you wanted!" and me, dumbfounded, saying, "whaaat?" and could not even say a word. When I said, why are you not including me in your discussions and your plans? Both of you talking to each other, excluding me as if I were not a part of it. She replied, "Whaaat? Do I have to ask your permission to give the medicine to our Mother?" As if that was what I meant. So as she continued talking angrily in her bathroom, I quietly stood up, opened the door, walked away calmly and felt sharp pains shooting from my left arms and left shoulder as I reached the potholed streets a few paces from her gate. It was my body's way of telling me it was such a really terrible experience talking there with my sister.  I should not do it again.

Why can't we just shut the door and only allow our dearest ones to enter?

The funeral did not really allow me enough room to mourn and grieve for my Pa.  There were so many people around; most of them someone I knew from childhood, but not all of them were offering a word of comfort. Some were there only to measure you and be critical of who you are. Some were really so tactless and mean that instead of consoling us in  times of grief, they only succeeded in upsetting me, and taking me away from thoughts of my Pa. For instance, there was this guy, who was so rude, he said I must have been so old by now because I was already far ahead in school when he and Eve were still in Grade One. Of course, he was Eve's barcada. "Day, ikaw ba, tiguwang na jud ka kaayo karun, Day, no, kay Inday na man ka daan atong naa mi sa Grade One ni Eve?" he asked. Of course, I told him, Hoy, I was far ahead of you because I was very young when I entered school! I was a visitor at age 5 but I was good enough to pass Grade One. (I should have told the guy this: I bet, you were still struggling to read your first alphabets at a very late age, while I only breezed through it at 5! But I was not quick enough to say that!)
Recalling it now, I realized, I was not quick enough to shoot back my killer one-liner (the way I used to) because I kept telling myself I was in my father's funeral and I had to be very careful not to make a scene with tactless and unwelcome visitors!  There was another guy, who was already drunk and started making some statements about the eldest daughter, because he mistook me for the youngest.  But our youngest sister said,  "Ah, she's always mistaken as the youngest," which immediately alerted the guy. I was curious what that drunkard was about to say about me before he was stopped by his companions.  Was he going to blurt out something about my political beliefs? Or why I hadn't married?! 
Then, the wake was really a wake, because it forced you to stay awake, even if your body was already crumbling for lack of sleep.  I had to get along with some people, including the driver who told me pointblank in between gulps of Fundador, I should be ashamed of myself because at my age, I still don't have a house and a car, I should strive to have one! As if those were all that mattered in the world. [But maybe, he was right?!] I told the foolish fellow those were not the things that I treasure most. What I treasure most are things that people like him could not see. But the guy was so stupid to even understand a word of what I was saying. 
Except for some kindred souls--like the two women friends from the Seventh Day Adventist, who offered me some beautiful verses to light up the dark moments of grief (and surprisingly, they belong to another religious sect and only came to pay their respect), most of the people at the funeral really upset me.  I was wondering why can't we just make the funeral a private affair?  Why not shut the door and only allow those closed to us to enter?

Moments

Things really happen so fast these days, but not really that fast, because I'm sure, I've been given sufficient signs and sufficient warnings of what lays ahead. On May 1, I was asked to go to Taiwan in a spur of the moment and while walking along Chino Roces with Pam before my trip, I had told Pam over and over again I had wanted to go to Butuan to visit my Pa but how can I do it? It's so difficult for me to do it because of something. Did I tell Pam I was not on speaking terms with my sister? Do it, she said. You have to do it. But I can't. I still can't. Why? she asked. Because. Pam said, Do it. I said, maybe, I should talk with my Pa in other ways, through the mind, perhaps, or through dreams because it's very difficult for me to go there, Pa, you know.  So, on the eve of June 1 when Eve called, she said I would no longer make it. I booked a ticket to Butuan to catch up with my Pa, who had been bedridden there for about eight months and people said he was waiting for me.  When I saw him, I could not almost recognize him. His face had assumed the face of my grandmother, who was so fair and pretty, and his hair has gone long and white. Pa, nia na si Ate, Pa, said Eve from the door. Did I see a flicker of recognition on his closed eyelids? 
Oh, if you only knew the weight of those final moments.