Rocks, and clumps of wildflowers paved the little road going into and out of the small barangay where I used to live. Our house stood right beside the solitary road. It had nothing remarkable except for the huge mango tree that used to stand tall beside our house. On summers, it became a home to restless wasps. On rainy days, it became the target of my daydreams, but most of the time, it was a reminder of what childhood felt like for a woman who was still growing.
Kakay Oscar owned a lot beside our house. It used to be a field filled with corn, and spiders that children from the neighborhood would spend hours hunting during summertime. When harvest season was over, the field remained empty for a month before it was tilled again for the next cropping season. Kids from the neighborhood flocked there and took advantage of the wind to float their colorful kites in the summer sky. Most of those kites were store bought, but the most beautiful of all was made of elegant yellow, and red Chinese papers. Their colors seemed to burst when they caught the rays of the sunset.
I admired those kites. I would sit by the window just to watch them behave like clumsy birds with colorful feathers. My mama would stand beside me from time to time, but she kept herself occupied with chores at home. I stayed by that window for hours, wondering about the feeling of flying. I had no kite of my own. We were short of money to buy one. My father could not make one, neither could my mama. My mind was wrapped by foolish thoughts, which back then was not called “envy” because I did not know yet the term.
Hours of staring at the vast sky were often interrupted by my papa’s voice. He kept a permanent chair by the porch of our house and remained there for the rest of the day. I never saw him get up from the chair on his own. Neither had I seen him take a walk on his own. My mama was always beside him when he needed something. Sometimes, he asked me to crank up the volume when the morning news came on the transistor radio. Most of the time, he asked me to hand him the small tub where he peed more than a dozen times a day. At that age, I understood that my family was different.
My mama stayed in the kitchen, washing hundreds of mung beans locally known as balatong. It was he cheapest option in the store that could magically turn into a hearty meal when boiled for hours, and mixed with vegetables like kamote tops, ampalaya leaves. Few pieces of tinapa were thrown into the pot with it. That little pot was enough to feed the three of us for dinner. The leftovers were divided for breakfast and lunch the following day. If we were lucky, the spotted cranky chicken would lay one egg which would be fried and paired with sinangag. It was enough for our breakfast.
It was wee bit peculiar for us to have a feast. By feast I meant, a little chunk of pork or chicken meat. We only had those when my aunt dropped by the house on her way home from the market. My mama used to work at my tita’s house taking care of my blind lola. My father often regarded my tita as the mirror of what he wanted me to become when I grow up. A teacher.
Years went by, I watched the barangay change. Some moved on from wooden houses to concrete modern buildings. Some stopped walking when motorcycles gained access to the barangay. Some of them left the town. Kakay Oscar’s corn field remained desolate after his death but was later bought by a police officer who built tall concrete fences around it, and huge house which shadowed ours when the sun sets on the west. Some of my chickens became old and refused to lay eggs. It then became time for my mama to butcher one and make tinola which, as usual, was served thrice that day. So much had changed. The kites disappeared one by one. Summer no longer had spiders, laughter or quiet stillness of the night.
Our house remained the same. Our lives remained the same. Meals were still served thrice a day. Leftovers after leftovers were reheated until the pot turned coal black. Balutung was still a staple in our table. On good days, we had instant noodles with malunggay leaves and way too much water for broth. My father’s health deteriorated. His speech became slurred. His hands often shook if he tried to move them. My mama grew thin, and irritable. I guess the pressure of holding our family together took a toll on her. I grew distant from the world. I learned how to go to the store alone with just a few coins in my pocket. I learned to ask for a lower price when the tindera would ask for more. I learned how to look at thrift stores for clothes that would be decent enough for school.
I could only count the days when our house smelled like good times. When there is meat on the table, and there is enough viand that would get us through for days. I could only count the pieces of clothing that were bought at a discounted price. Clothes that I was proud of until I noticed that everyone else in the school wore branded ones…
Those days were hard, yet those were the most beautiful. Hauntingly beautiful. It was quiet. It was true. Everything had changed. Balatung might be all that we could afford back then, but it was the constant among every detail that had been gone in my life and if I had only pesos left on my pocket, the first thing I will buy is still balatung. Although it tastes a little differently now, and there is one less plate set on the table.
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