By Thirdie Palma
Philippine Daily Inquirer
It was one ordinary summer afternoon and the sense of temporary freedom from strenuous exams, term papers and everything about school seemed liked a permanent liberation from Azkaban for me. I just came back from school, miles away from home, and surprisingly, I didn’t feel like diving straight into the welcoming deep blue sea just a few paces from my sister’s place where I was staying. Instead, I went to visit an old house.
While standing outside the house, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I had to muster all my courage to enter the house again after several months. I knew the door was closed from the inside, so I opened the window and reached for the lock to open it. The door swung open with a familiar creak.
Right after I closed it, a little boy with curly brown hair came running into the living room. He climbed up on the sofa and started singing while positioning his right arm like he was holding a microphone. He was making-believe that the chair was his stage, I thought.
I glanced at the dining table where an old woman was sitting at its far end. She was busy forming some brown round stuff and putting them on top of a long banana leaf. She was making “tableya,” ground cacao used to make “tsokolate” [chocolate]. The scent of the hot tableya smelled so good.
A girl’s voice suddenly called out and the boy went to the kitchen. I followed him and saw three girls who had just come from the beach, with all the sand on their hands and feet. The boy was told to get something from the cabinet and though he obeyed, there was a trace of resistance in his eyes. He tiptoed to the cabinet, careful not to draw attention from his “lola” [grandmother], who was busy this time making “ube” [purple yam] flavored ice candies. Then he returned to the kitchen and handed over piles of baking tins to his sisters.
The girls hurried back to the beach. I followed. They were playing a game, simulating their lola baking “torta.” What was interesting was they didn’t use flour nor did they use an oven for baking. I laughed when I saw smoke coming from a fire between some stones formed into a triangle.
I went back to the house and waited until my eyes could adjust to the semi-darkness inside. The boy was now carrying a tray full of ice candies. After putting them all in the freezer, his lola whistled, calling someone upstairs. When nobody answered, she asked the boy to rouse his “lolo” [grandfather] from his afternoon siesta so they could have snacks together.
The boy scratched his head, but went straight upstairs and I followed him again. Upon reaching the door, he pushed it carefully, mindful not to make the slightest noise. He walked slowly like a cat and paused for a while, probably wondering if he should back off or not. When he came to a decision, he touched his lolo and said, “Wake up!” Then he ran toward the door as fast as he could.
His lolo did wake up but his expression said, “Don’t tickle me or else I’m gonna hunt you down.” He stood up quickly, bent on chasing his “attacker.” The old man was smiling, unable to sustain his fake show of anger as he ran after his grandson, who was now going down the stairs two steps at a time.
While enjoying the moment, I overheard the old woman say, “Stop it, you’re scaring the little boy!” It was then that I realized that this house was more than just some dull structure, as it would seem from the outside.
I went downstairs and saw another boy holding a water gun in his right hand while munching junk food he was holding with his left. He seemed to be enjoying the fact that their lolo was playing mad again. He even pointed to where the little boy was hiding, prompting the latter to dash outside and into the beach.
All four of us burst into laughter. One of the sisters came in to ask what happened.
“This is not just a house,” I exclaimed. “This is a happy home!” However, nobody seemed to have the slightest idea that I was there with them so I stood up and headed for the living room.
As I was standing in front of a large portrait of colorful birds hanging on the wall, a collage of family pictures at the center of the table caught my eye. I knew all the five families in it very well. Mine was one of them. As I scanned the pictures one by one, the entire house fell into a deafening silence.
After a while, the front door opened and a man spoke, “When did you arrive?” It was my uncle.
“Just this morning,” I answered, without looking away from the collage.
“Have you visited papa in the cemetery?” he asked.
“Not yet but tomorrow I will.”
Yes, this was home to me. Yes, I was that little boy and those were my elder sisters and brother. Our parents were working in the city, so they left us in the care of our grandparents.
When my lolo died in 2004, I couldn’t go home due to my studies. Going home three months after he died was one of the saddest things I did in my life. When my lola died of cancer in 1998, it was also one huge blow to our entire extended family. They were the reason we would gather in the same home every fiesta and Christmas Day, and to celebrate such occasions without them just feels different and less fun.
When we moved back to our own house a few years after my lola’s death, only my unmarried uncle was left with my lolo. We visited them frequently.
A house for me remains as it is, in the physical sense, if the people who give life to it are either gone or live negative or very boring lives. Only people who live happy and content lives can transform a house into a home.
I am certainly looking forward to a time when the old house becomes a home again. That would be the time when I won’t need to summon my courage just to enter the place. That would be the time when happiness isn’t a thing of the past or a figment of the imagination anymore but something real and living.
Thirdie Palma, 24, finished BS Human Ecology at the University of the Philippines, Los Baños, and is now studying nursing at the Holy Name University in Tagbilaran City, Bohol.
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