Fragrant flowers, memory of home
This letter is in reaction to the article “Who hands you flowers” (Inquirer, 3/29/12) written by Violy Hughes-Davis. Please permit me to refer to her as Violy.
Violy writes beautifully, keeping this Inquirer reader’s blood pressure normal. How well chosen her topic is, at once inviting a nonagenarian to sit back with her shawl on, read with undivided attention, chew on its particles and, later, muse and ponder.
That is how I admire Violy’s Tia Naty, she who habitually handed flowers to people of all classes! There’s so much in Violy’s article that makes her flowers’ fragrance spread over to my senses, and to my mind, up to now—the memory of home. Hanggang ngayon, memorized ko ang amoy ng kusina, ang damit ng Tatay ko who died at a young age, nagpagunita sa akin ng saya at tuwa nuong araw. (Until now, the smell of the kitchen still wafts in my mind, as well as the scent of the clothes of my father who died at a young age and left me happy memories.)
Thank you, dear Violy, I am 90 and you are 73—a 17-year difference. You may call me
Lola Nora. I’d love to hear from you.
One cannot reach 90 without experiencing her blood pressure going up, once in a while, caused by anger, excitement, etc.
One thing about me, though. I am, by nature, a happy person: life of the party, can bring the house down with laughter, I was told.
I am also the opposite of that. I have odd moments for which my friends are just too kind to not disown me.
Above all else, I confess that I belong to a group of people “who sit back, content that all’s well with their world and with themselves.”
Thank you, Inquirer and Violy.
—HONORA R. VICENCIO,
retired lawyer from MLQ School of Law,
