Three pairs of eyes light up every time there is news that I will be coming home soon, or even at the mere thought that I will be seeing them again. Those eyes belong to my best friends: Papa, 71; Mama, 62; and Grandma, 90.
I am an only child, a quarter of a century old, independent for 12 years, and I have lived in 13 different places since 1996 — alone, although not quite so. To give an idea of how physically detached I am from my family, the only time I spent my real birthday with them was in 1998. The same thing goes for their birthdays.
It took my parents 10 years of marriage to have me. I only get to visit them 88 cumulative days a year, maximum. That is if I don’t engage in any income-generating activities during the summer break. Yes, I know, we have a weird family set-up.
Province for me means family and stability. And that is why until now I haven’t invited any friends to my house, even my closest pals. I am not being selfish, it is just that a person will find my soul there, figuratively speaking.
Our place is like any other barrio. Not primitive but not too civilized either. Not far-flung but somewhat hidden. Every time I go home, it is as if I am going back to basics, so to speak. The nights are longer and colder. Fireflies appear as the counterpart of lamp posts in Manila. People still sleep eight hours a day. There are no graveyard shifts, except for the dogs running around and the bugs and crickets in the background. The last to go to sleep are people who play pool or come home after a dance in another village or a visit to a friend. But other than them, there is just the endless sky, the infinite stars and fireflies.
If I am very lucky, I get to watch the moon rise behind Mayon Volcano. It is an exquisite view, every detail of which I can remember without the help of a photograph. I don’t even bother to take pictures; it spoils the beauty of the moment. It is just how it is. Beauty attains its summit when it is transitory. The time element does the trick.
Our ancestral home is half-museum, half-residence; half-museum because almost all the things stored in it can be considered historic. This was not deliberate. My family is not into collecting antiques. When I get bored, I would go on a treasure hunt at home and find anything, from old kitchen utensils to a collection of copies of Reader’s Digest from the 1950s to the 1980s, with my pre-school scribbles on them. There are also books and novels, some paintings of my great-grandparents and black and white photographs of members of the clan lying around the place, including close-up pictures of dead people inside their coffins.
Now it is my best friends’ turn. “Lola” [Grandma] is the de facto “mayordoma” of the house who keeps reminding everyone, “Early to bed, early to rise, makes one healthy and wealthy and wise.” Well, who am I to argue? She is a 90-year-old lady with 20/20 eye sight, and she still can move furniture, including an old narra table, here and there. My father, on the other hand, normally wakes up at midnight to rummage through the refrigerator for anything he can chew. My parents and I usually talk about school, future plans and their favorite topic: my nonexistent future husband. Early in the morning, Mama wakes me up and my eyes, and later my stomach, will feast on my favorite dishes all laid on the table. That’s the way she shows her love for us. And she knows all the secrets that I cannot tell any other soul. She is the family’s disciplinarian and the most practical of all practical mortals who inhabit this earth.
In one of our conversations, I asked Mama a simple question: “Was it hard letting me go?” With a playful laugh in her eyes, she answered, “What do you think? You don’t have to be intelligent to know the answer.” Then, in a serious tone, she added, “There are so many ways of loving, but there is a proper way of doing it. And choosing that proper way is the hardest thing one can ever do because it is what they usually call real love. It is either you’re stuck here with us and nothing good happens in your life, or we let you go and guide you so that you can live your life to the fullest. Remember that when you have a family of your own. Surely, you know that.” She said those words while meaningfully eyeing the big belt she used whenever she felt that I needed a spanking during my childhood.
I was entering high school when my parents physically set me free for the first time. There were many misgivings from relatives and family friends. On one occasion, with the intention of letting me hear what she thought about giving me independence at an early age, Mama said matter-of-factly, “We already taught her all the things she needs to know. If she messes up her life, it is not us who will suffer. It will be her. We gave her the compass, now it is up to her what course to take.”
Her words constantly play over and over in my mind.
I have been living on my own in Manila for a decade now. Here, I worry about my food, laundry, budget, studies, among other things. These are things I don’t even think of when I am home. It is easy to get lost in all the hustle-bustle of the place. There are so many substitutes for happiness that one’s mind would spin just picking which one is a perfect fit. I have met many people and found out it is not difficult to be swayed and to give up my own beliefs and principles. And there are events, both hurtful and fun, which tempt us to be someone we are not. The only thing that keeps me on track is a beautiful reality, a reality which no one can change. It’s like the ace among my cards, the lucky charm in a gamble, the lost beginner’s luck.
In our province, I find the stability of the wanderer in me, the reason behind my dreams, the beauty in simplicity, the answer to all the why’s, the balm for a shattered soul, the solace in silence, and the three sets of eyes that see the real me as a daughter and as a friend. My parents have given me a unique kind of friendship that knows neither distance nor age.
I guess everyone needs a home — and real people in it.
Joy V. de los Reyes, 25, is a senior at the San Beda College of Law.
