Saturday, January 20, 2018

Old House

There used to be a big house next to where my grandparents live. Back then, others just referred to it as the "lumang bahay", and no one is allowed entry through its front or side doors.

Access was limited at the back, through a wooden staircase leading to a small reception area, where you must remove your shoes before entering. From there is a short hallway leading to the room where Ingkong, my grandfather's mother, lived.

I don't remember much of her. I was too young. But that house drew me in. During summer, when we were deported to the province, I would usually go to the old house and just wander its perimeters. Even then, I felt that there was more to that house than the wooden balcony and hallway we were permitted to enter.

There was one time I was able to enter that forbidden place beyond the bolted door by the hallway. Once, I chanced Ingkong's helper cleaning inside, and I crossed to her side. Instead of throwing me out, she told me to watch my steps, as the floor boards were creaking, and weak at some parts. 

Inside was another hallway, larger than the one leading to Ingkong's. To the right were rows of capiz windows, and at the end was a pair of bolted doors. There was another door to the left of where I was standing; more mysteries to unravel, if one were bold enough.

Only muted light was able to penetrate those capiz windows, giving the hallway the forlorn atmosphere of the forgotten. I dared not touch anything for fear that I disturb the sleep of the house, equally scared and excited that the house would awake and tell me its stories.

The old house is long gone, torn to its foundations and buried in memory. I can't even remember which side of the family belonged to that house, nor where it used to stand. But every once in a while, it appears to me in the vagueness of dreams and fading recollection.

Saturday, September 20, 2014

Green. Timeline.

In a rare burst of motivation, I decided to wrap my books. While taking inventory of the many tomes I've accumulated over the years, I happened upon those two.

Wrapped tight in the plastic bag it came with upon purchase; hidden at the bottom of the pile; memories were unlocked, much like the knots that held the pair fast.

I knew you as the roommate from Las Dias del EspaƱa. You were welcoming and always jolly, and partnered. There were quite a few happy and drunken nights then, your graduating year.

Las Dias ended and we lost contact, until you messaged and asked how I was. You said you wanted to drink, and I was willing to endulge. And there, where we decided to meet, I bought those two books while I was waiting.

We shared a bottle of cheap liquor that night, talking about your new job and few other sundries. And when the bottle was emptied, laid for a couple of hours to tide away the dizziness, and then you went home.

Nothing was ever planned. You would call out of the blue and we will drink. We don't talk about it after, and the next we hear from each other would be the next drinking session. And we will share a bottle, a glass, a room; and be done by midnight.

I never found out the reason why you blocked me from social networks.

A couple years passed and the memories laid forgotten. Until now, when I uncovered the books and wiped out the dust that burried it.

Now, it's time to wrap them up.

posted from Bloggeroid

LinkWithin

Blog Widget by LinkWithin