coming home: parts and pieces

It has hard to describe the slowness that I felt, waking up to watch the rays of light coming in from the large French windows. I stretch my arms and realize that it's Sunday and there is nothing to do. It is Sunday and there's nothing to do. One can be smug about such a simple pleasure.

I slept on my aunt's couch, which is blue and long and roomy. It is a big couch. I easily fall in love with big couches. I once told someone that my house would consist only of couches of different sizes and colors. No ratty chairs, no beds. Just couches. But the biggest and softest couch of all would sit in my room. It would be done up in teal so that when friends come over and they say, Oh what a beautiful couch and such a lovely color! I'd say, It's teal. I've always wanted to use that word in a regular conversation, as if by inserting it, it would make the sentence better and more meaningful.

I refused to leave my warm couch and let my mind fill up with lovely, serene thoughts. I remember thinking about how happy I was with my life in general. Nothing is outwardly wrong and everyone I love is healthy. It's good to wake up this way. It is very rare for me to have time to think about things in this manner because most of the time, I scamper out of bed, almost always rushing to take a shower and then head on to more socially meaningful things.

I see a man pass me by. He does not spare me a glance. He is wearing a brown tophat; the rest of his outfit is nondescript. He is smoking a cigar at 7:30 in the morning. This is an action that does not surprise me. My father's friends smoked cigars non-stop, so it didn't matter whether it was morning or night.

The man I am talking about is one of my cousin's old school friends and the couch I have spent the night in is in my aunt's house in Lucban, Quezon. The last time I spent the night here was when I was 10 years old. I remember that I slept over in order to bond with my cousins from Saudi Arabia, all of whom I haven't seen since they were toddlers. Back then, Saudi Arabia was just a piece of paper in the grand design which my 4th Grade teacher called a map. It was yellow and not as big as Australia. I ended my visit earlier than I had intended because my cousin, the eldest and the most Arabian-looking, cornered me in one of the rooms upstairs and asked me to lift my shirt up. I, of course, refused and was shaken. It took me 16 years to come back and this time, I made sure that they weren't there.

Another man passed by, sans cigar. I have already been awake for 30 minutes. I hear voices in the kitchen, men's voices which were gruff and loud. They are talking about stocks and bonds, horse races and the latest car models. I recognize their voices, they are my cousin's childhood friends. But I cannot see them because of the thick, white curtain that separates the living room from the dining area. So I imagine that they are all just mouths, talking and masticating. I imagine that they are the most interesting mouths in the world and people pay to see them talk about stocks and bonds, horse races, and the latest car models.

I stare at the white cat which has situated itself on a stool. It looks uncomfortable. Poor cat, I think, I've robbed you of your throne and you're too polite to tell me off. I proceeded with my morning rituals then headed off to look for my aunt.

My aunt is my father's sister who never married. I believe I've talked about her in one of my previous blogs, but never at length. She is 93 years old and can still chat up a storm. My father once told me a story about why she never married. The man she loved was about to propose one night. He decided that it would be clever to start with a harana (a love song) so he sang loudly and confidently under Tita Nena's window. What he didn't know was that Lola was sick and could not stand noise of any kind (at this point, my father always used to snidely say that the man wasn't what you can call a singer so his voice registered as a caterwaul). So what Lolo did was, he filled a pail with urine and water and poured everything on the man's poor head. The suitor never came back.

I wonder sometimes if she thinks about him, if she tries playing it over and over again in her mind how dreadfully humiliated he possibly looked like at that moment when Lolo dumped the contents of the pail on him. Or maybe, she imagined other, better things about him.

My cousin noticed that I left my makeshift bed and told me to go to the dining room. He and his friends are having breakfast. Today breakfast consists of batchoy and brown puto and an assortment of fruits. I sat with them and ate while deliberately trying to look attentive and interested. I volunteer information regarding what they're talking about and am careful in phrasing questions. My father always stressed the importance of being able to conduct oneself properly and intelligently within groups. He refused to see me looking meek and shy, like someone who doesn't have much to say. He used to tell me that the mark of an intelligent woman is how confident she appears in a group of men. That eventually, if she's witty enough and knows enough, they won't think of her as a separate entity, rather as a pleasant and remarkable addition. This is why I believe that I've always been more at ease in the company of men. I feel it requires less superficial effort from me, but more brainwork.

After breakfast, I go back to the living room and sit beside my aunt. She is watching the telly. We talk about a myriad of things -- past and present situations, what's what and who's who in which person's life. We talk about sad things and fall into quiet reminiscence afterwards. She is clutching my hand all the while, as if I were a bubble that has no other fate but to vanish in thin air. I feel so much affection from her, and belief. I wonder sometimes if a person deserves that much love. But then I realize that no one actually deserves love. When it is given, all that can be done is to be grateful for it.

*an excerpt from my journal, dated June 1, 2008