My piece of childhood
It’s been 18 years since I’ve been to Baguio. So when my friends invited me for an unplanned, spontaneous trip to the City of Pines, I accepted the invitation without any hesitation, joyfully knowing that, at last, reliving my childhood memories was just one SUV ride away.
My family lived in Baguio for a while when my father worked as a stay-in family driver for my aunt in 2004. Almost two decades had passed, yet the memories I’ve spent living there remain vivid, replaying at the back of my mind whenever I had the opportunity to daydream or look at our old photo albums. For years, I’ve longed for the smell of the pine trees, the sloping and sometimes slippery road, the cool climate, and the innocent 5-year-old me who knew nothing but to live his life.
The atmosphere was instantly filled with nostalgia as we arrived at the terminal. If I remember correctly, it was the same terminal my mother and my siblings arrived at the first time we came to the city. Burnham Park was just across and it felt just like yesterday when my dad was waving at us from the other side of the road with my cousins cheerfully waiting for our arrival.
After finding a nearby hotel, we took a stroll inside Burnham. As we walked, I couldn’t help but reminisce fragments of memories: our family having a picnic, kids flying frisbees, dogs running, and some bubbles gliding in the air from the street vendors who sold assorted toys. When I saw the lake, I still felt the jealousy when my cousins and I rode a swan boat but I unfortunately got separated from my favorite cousin (who was also my childhood crush).
As I acquainted my friends with these blurry little memories, they told me that it was peculiar to remember things when I was 5 years old. It was true but I couldn’t blame myself because they were only a few of the beautiful childhood memories I have.
The following day, my friends accompanied me to the village where we once lived. It felt surreal as we arrived at the subdivision. I did not know where to start looking. I couldn’t remember exactly where our old home was because the place had changed completely. It has more houses now and the road has changed entirely.
But there were still things that reminded me that this was the place where I grew up: the guard house, the sloping road where my cousins and I would race in, the houses with chimneys, the smell of the flowers, grass, pine trees, and the fallen misty leaves.
At first, we were just enjoying walking down the village. But as we continued to wander for over an hour searching for my piece of childhood, I had to acknowledge that we were going nowhere. I let my friends rest while I continued to embark on my own.
As I walked endlessly from corner to corner, I felt dizzy so I had to stop. My heart crumbled at the thought that it was time for me to give up. I have failed to find the piece of my childhood memory I’ve always cherished.
There were no signs of that two-story house whose balcony was an altar for me and where I would spend divine mornings looking at the majestic mountain scenery. I once boasted that the rice terraces were visible from there, even if they were not. No signs of its backyard where we once bathed in the rain or the front yard where we played badminton and basketball. It felt like all my memories were just an illusion. A playful event my mind must have created as a child.
As I waved the white flag of defeat, we finally called for a taxi so we could continue visiting other tourist spots in Baguio. I asked the driver if he had been driving around the village for a long time. He said yes and shared that the subdivision has greatly improved over the years. Aside from the numerous residential houses built, he also said that the road has gotten a lot better now.
The last thing I heard was that my aunt and her husband sold the house several years ago. Yes, it was never our house, but I called it my home. Being in Baguio at the age of 5 was like a great journey.
Maybe it is foolish of me to think that I could relive a childhood memory that has been long gone. Honestly, I was hoping and wishing that by visiting, I could reclaim that fire I had back when I was still a child. Almost two decades have passed and a lot has changed since then—the crisis our family went through, my sister having her own family and children now, and me graduating from college.
Places, like people, could change in a moment even without prior notice. They do not respect the memories we’ve made in it. Nevertheless, Baguio City will forever be a witness that, once in my life, I was 5.
