I am Home

Nothing compares to the leap of excitement and happiness that I feel as upon entering my room I drop my suitcase to the floor and throw myself across the bed. The smell of books from the nearby shelves mingling with the scent of the pillows is reviving. In the three weeks that I was away, though I loved and I missed the anonymity that the big city afforded me, I longed for the comfort of my room with its whitewashed walls and black framed wide windows.

Just two days ago I was shut in an almost airless room if not for the air conditioning unit that hummed and groaned and fanned the particles of dust, of life, of all the remnants of transient experiences encased in that forebodingly green space we called room 219 that did not help ease my claustrophobia. My roommate Renee probably wondered why I had such a habit of parting the curtains every morning and leaving them that way even after sundown.

Now that I am home, the distant mountain massif beckons at me, taunting me to get up and look down my window to the freshly plowed rice fields and all the signs of rural life beyond it. At the foot of the mountain is one river that gurgled and flowed all year round and farther still is Hinalaran, an old and forgotten place that cradles countless forgotten and unnamed lives laid to rest. Then there’s the mountain itself, Mt. Himababwan, dark, dark blue during summer, hidden during the rainy season, with its gently sloping hills, sheer drops and dangerous outcrops.

I could hear Ate Lenlen stirring at the kitchen, dashing from the sink to the stove to the table with our cute furry friends circling round her feet. She has been with us for four years. She rids the house of dust and clutter, starch and irons our clothes while feeding us with juicy pieces of village gossips which we are too busy to bother under other circumstances. Though I dislike her soggy noodle dish with its lumpy rice to go, I must admit I enjoyed her gossip and liked the smell of the house after she wiped the floor with damp soapy washcloth. And need I say she loved the cats too! Her presence adds warmth to a place that echoes with silence.

I am glad it does not rain today. I had a glimpse of my mom’s Japanese roses in bloom as I was going inside the house an hour ago. I vow to take a stroll in the garden this afternoon before the sun comes down. When I was a little girl, the garden is one of my favorite hangouts. Back then the tall hibiscus competed with the trees in their attempt to sweep the clouds and the golden cast of the afternoon sun that filtered through the leaves sent dancing bright patterns on the mossy soil beneath them. And there I was squatting or crawling under the flowers looking for Thumbelina.

A cry from the street startle me from my reverie…must be the little girl from the house across throwing her tantrums once again. I remember how her cries could go into a wild, shrill, bratty wailing which leaves the neighbors with no other choice but to feign deafness. I can hear Ate Lenlen calling for mother and father. Lunch is ready. At last, I’ll be eating good food once more. I was sick with what we were eating in the city. All those meat, eggs and grease…yew! Down here dinner always include fresh and homegrown vegetables to be eaten with great relish over an interesting story or two.

I wonder if my new found friends are already home. Maybe some of them are. I am sure they have many stories to tell of that two/one month-long journey of self-discovery. As for myself, my mother and father are waiting, a big platter of my favorite dish and a heap of cooked vegetables on the table. This time, I would be the storyteller and the story would be mine. Ate Lenlen would be staring at me, mouth agape, spoon poised in one hand, taking in what I have to tell and feeding them later to the village girls who must have heard of my return by now.