The things we remember

It's strange, the things we remember.

I sometimes cannot recall what I did a day ago or worse, what I set out to do a few minutes ago. But I can remember with clarity my Lola's house.

I remember the clay-red tiles on the ground floor balcony, the books in Spanish at the 'library', the kalachuchi flowers that bordered the driveaway as well as the roses. I even remember Patsy, her dog, who we buried in the garden near the gate.


I remember the chicken coop at the foot of the structure that housed the water tank and the smell. I remember my bare feet hugging the wood as I climbed all the way up to the tank.

I remember the layout of the basement, how eerie the steps leading to it looked at night. I remember the smell of the cabinets in my parents' room, how the built-in clothes bin below the altar swung outwards. Come to think of it, I've never seen anything like it since. I also remember the closet inside the CR which I would always open whenever I had to do "business" there just to check if there was anything or anyone inside.

I remember the Iba tree, the afternoon drinking sessions of Noy Leoning where I had my first taste of Tanduay and sometimes, Ginebra. I remember that we used a charcoal-heated iron and how I would use it to flatten the day-old pan de sal and how good and hot the bread tasted. I also remember rice sprinkled generously with Silver Swan soy sauce for snacks.

I remember the dirty kitchen and the washing area which was always, always wet. And the open tub which we would pretend was a swimming pool and which could hold two to three of us children at a time. I remember that Nang Luz would set out the washed plates, glasses and utensils in a bangkera outside. I remember now that it was near a canal. Yet we thought nothing of it.

I remember the guava trees that I would climb, the pig sty which later became a shed. I remember the bodega where I would climb up and down wood and other materials piled on top of each other -- it didn't seem dangerous then even though I now understand why Nang Luz would scold me for going in there.

I remember the small, cleared space at the back -- although it didn't seem small then. We would play basketball. It was there where we later cooked pork skin in vats when we tried to make a go of chicharon as a business.

I remember the black and white TV and how close I would sit in front so that I could turn the dial and surf the three channels back then. I remember studying on the floor, tummy down on the black and grey-speckled tiles -- the tiles that by coincidence I found in an old house which we now own and live in.

I remember us bringing chairs just in front of the gate late at night so that we could watch the drag racing that was tolerated back then on Osmena blvd.

Oh, I remember. And yet I stood up and came back to my chair just now, forgetting entirely the copy that I had intended to retrieve from the printer.

Oh well. It's strange, the things we remember.