Love is a breeze

I have nine electric fans in my house.

There’s one in my bedroom and two in my parents’. In the two hallways of my home, one hangs in the middle of each. We even have one in the kitchen, and two in the living room—one on the floor, the other on the wall.

It has always amused me that we have so many fans for such a small house, even having more than necessary in a single room. The corners of my lips never fail to quirk up whenever I enter the hallways. But that thought is immediately followed by one that softens my features even more.

Because it hasn’t always been like this.

Instead of the whir from the metal blades, the whip of an anahaw fan filled the first months of my life. My welcome to the world had not been an easy one. Aside from my birth being delayed a day because I went back inside my mother’s womb, I was also uncharacteristically pale for a newborn. But none of these held a candle to the condition that devastated my struggling parents: asthma.

It was already hard enough for them, a newlywed couple, to have moved into the bustling city scene—what more taking care of a sickly newborn?

My parents worked day and night, and this doubled with the news of my health. Bills overflowed our mailbox as doctor’s notes filled their bags. There was the rent, then the electricity, then the water, then the grocery—and on top of all of that, the medicine and checkups needed to handle my asthma.

And yet, it simply wasn’t enough.

According to my doctor’s apologetic words, it was imperative that I did not sweat a lot or else my asthma would trigger. As the saying goes, prevention is better than cure—something my parents took to heart. During the searing mornings, blistering afternoons, and stifling evenings of my early life, either my mother or father would tirelessly fan me as the other parent went out and worked. Their calloused hands from years of toil and labor clasped around the handle of the fan anytime they could until we could afford an electric fan that would suffice our needs, especially mine.

Evidently, we were not rich—far from it. We lived in a house that we rented and lived paycheck to paycheck.

Yet, I can proudly say that we were wealthy.

Coins did not fill our wallets or our pockets, but our home was filled with love. It was everywhere around me before I even had my first word: It was in the worn-out doormat my parents stepped on every time they returned from their jobs. It was in the elbow my tiny head rested in as I was lulled to sleep. It was in the name I was bestowed that was carefully crafted to represent the deepest form of love. It was in the giggles that filled the space whenever I was tossed up into the air.

And most of all, it was in the breeze that came from the fanning of my parents.

Even as bullets of sweat and exhaustion trickled down the side of their faces from the heat, they endured and persisted; they made sure that I would feel none of it as much as possible. Their wrists twisted and turned in a coincidental dance with the hands of the clock, and this carried on even when we were able to finally move houses—when we finally could afford to own a house.

And above all, buy electric fans.

My parents didn’t need to fan me as often anymore, but it still occasionally happened. Sometimes in the mornings, sometimes in the afternoons. But this time, the air was different.

It was the mark of a new chapter in our lives, perhaps the very first one of our family’s book. The breeze that came with the flicks of their wrist was no longer hurried or rigid, but rather serene.

A few years later, they took another step and bought an aircon. No longer did they need to worry if their baby would be drenched with sweat from the Philippine weather. With the flick of a switch or the push of a button, their worries could float away.

And in the blink of an eye, I was suddenly as tall as my mom and almost reached the hair of my dad. Nine fans were scattered all over the house along with two airconditioning units.

And for unknown reasons, I had not had asthma for the last 10 years. I don’t know what exactly happened, but I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Was it the medication? Was it the constant emphasis to be in a clean space? Could it be something else?

Who knows? I sure don’t.

But I do know one thing.

The days are hotter than ever and the only hand that fans me using a handheld one is my own. Not only do I now face the harsh beating of the sun, but also the numerous challenges of growing up. Problems of all kinds weigh on my mind and shoulders the more age wears itself onto my body. More often than not, I find myself slumping haphazardly over my desk as the electric fan five feet away from me spins with vigor.

Sometimes these worries get to me, and the heat increases even more. Suddenly, I’m merely a foot tall and I’m lying on the banig desperately gulping in the air. Everything around me becomes too heavy, too much, too hot—it’s as if my lungs had caught fire. In those moments, I bitterly get reminded of how life is nothing but scorching to those who dare to live it.

But it only takes me a glance at the fan and the feel of the breeze on my skin to remember the truest thing I know from the depths of my heart: I am and was so loved by my parents who were both the word “love” given breath.

And suddenly, breathing becomes a bit easier.

Verlei Gan, 17, wishes to conquer the chapters of her life with her mighty and trusty sword: the pen.