Home, Revisited

The place now looks different, but not strangely familiar. There’s no denying I recognize its every nook and cranny, although they have already been stripped of the many things that once marked its entirety as our own.

I see the ravages of time as my gaze wandered. But no matter how time may dishevel its appearance, that entire space – with the house, the trees, the water well and everything else in the vicinity - will always be HOME. There is the cradle of our youth, the repository of sweet, poignant memories.

For most of our early life, we lived in this cottage built inside the public high school where my father worked as a teacher. This arrangement made us look and feel special, as it created an environment different from the rest of the town. We were practically located atop a hill far from the center of town. Call it suburbia, island-town style.

The community was small. There were only three houses from our side of the campus. There were probably nine others from the other sides but they were quite far. One cannot even call them neighbors. But that didn’t stop us from bonding with the rest of the kids. The entire school grounds were ours to explore. We would climb the ceilings of the classrooms, steal pineapples from the school farm, pick young coconuts, build our own “houses”, or just play at the open field. Finding and herding us back home when dawn breaks was pretty difficult.

Our house lies about 500 meters from the school gate. That’s the only disadvantage I could think of. You see, there was no electricity yet at the time (it’s still scheduled even today). That means that if by any chance you’re still out after dusk, you would have to traverse that entire length as you go home. It doesn’t make any difference if it were pitch dark or as bright as the full moon could glow. Instinct, or the fear of the fabled encantos, will automatically fire your feet to run like crazy as soon as you close the heavy gate.

For the run to be shorter, many times I wished it were just a straight pathway. But it wasn’t. And more, somewhere in the middle of the route lies a short bridge (covered by a nipa roof during our time, making it more eerie). From there, you can see straight ahead the flickering light of the gasera by the porch. With that as beacon, I would make my final dash to the comforts of home (I swear the bridge would seem to move as soon I’d step on it). Lydia de Vega would have been no match.

The trees we planted as part of our elementary school projects were still there. These were the trees that I would climb if I sulk from parental dressing down, or when I try to memorize a poem. I’m not sure though if the knifed messages are still there somewhere in the trunks.


We left the place when my father died long before he would have retired. It took us a while to simply retrace our steps and visit. It was quite painful at the time. It wasn’t easy leaving and forgetting something that is already part you. Truth be told, we weren’t ready to leave. But life has to move on. And we have.

So now, as I stand by the grounds that nurtured me, all I do is remember.