She was standing at the end of the dirt road leading to the old wooden house twenty meters or so ahead. From where she was she could see the vines creeping up the facade and the side walls.

The french windows were badly weathered, some of the glass were broken if not smeared with dried dust and dark-green stains. Some of the wooden planks had been detached from the walls, eaten to rot by termites. Weeds and wildflowers fought each other on the lawn and around the house, occupying the once manicured gardens and invading the cobblestone driveway. And under the sweeping of the wind, they were swaying like waves of gold and brown and green and yellow.


The mango tree beside the house was still there, gloriously spreading its branches and swaying its foliage against the wind, as though welcoming her back. Dried leaves were scattered everywhere by wind and time; the bark of the trunk showed that it was aging fast. The hammock under it had long been gone, and the metal swing by the mini-playground on the other side of the house had succumbed to the wrath of corrosion.


From where she was standing, she could hear the house squeaked against the blow of the wind. And the roof was now dark red, its fragmenting edge curled up as the wind swept against it and smashed lightly back against the wooden truss. The house, from her vintage point, looked perfect for a serene and dramatic photograph or a masterpiece painting, one which would send a message that would reach out into the inner hearts of men.

But it was not just a painting. It was her childhood. A proud and standing memoir of her life as a child. It was just she who neglected it, it was just she who ignored the very witness of the life she had here. It was the very house whom she had shared many countless and immeasurable moments, moments that would never happen again in her lifetime, or in the afterlife.

She started to walk slowly toward the two-storey house, wading across the wildflowers and cogon grass. When she reached the door she unlocked and unchained it, slowly turned the rusty doorknob, carefully opened the door, and stepped inside.



It had been a very long time since the time she was leaving the house with her parents. It was thirty already years ago, but she could still clearly remember how she was flatly and nonchalantly accepting the reality that they would be abandoning it. She could still vividly remember how she was casually walking away without turning back, as if she had known for so long that it was written in her fate and should unfold. And she could still remember how it was so unimportant for her to cry for leaving the place behind. She did not understand why, then; she couldn't understand why, now. Perhaps, she suspected, she was still too young to understand everything, to feel what she should feel.

She felt sorry now that she did not think of it herself to go back here, that she'd had to wait for something to happen before finding within herself the longing to go back here. She didn't want to consume all the time she had now thinking about it, blaming herself and regretting things, and so she just shrugged it off for now.

After adjusting her eyes to the dimness inside, she looked around, darting her eyes from the living room to the hallway and back. Dust settled on the rotten upholstery, eating them slowly to rot. Cobwebs warned of the years she's gone, and reminded her of the past she'd let time buried it here. Fragments of glass littered on the floor with dust and debris and dead leaves.

She walked toward the hallway that led to the staircase. When she came near she noticed the faded Pentel Marker drawings and scribblings across one side of the hallway: her childhood art and the evidence of her passage to literacy. They were very faint now, but were still visible enough to know and read what they were, for they still stood out from being devoured by the rotting of the plywood.

My name is Pearl Anne Ramos. I am 8 years old. I have one brother and one sister.

Then, there was another one written below it. It was obviously written on a different date the than first. She knew because she could still remember herself writing it, and she could also remember how she had really felt. Although she couldn't remember how dense the anger and hate that had hung over her family, and how deep the loss and anguish her parents had felt, she could tell it was something that time had no power to subdue and erase because until just last week the broken and wounded relationship between her parents and her grandfather had not healed. And though she'd never looked inside to find it, it was something that had also lived in her for so long.

Silently with her eyes staring at the wall, she read:

My brother Jason died yesterday and my parents cry all night. I am very sad.

After a while, as she was standing there, her body began to soften as she remembered how she would hurriedly ran home from school to be with his brother and take care of him and play with him. It was so long ago, but she still missed her younger brother so badly.

She climbed up the stairs into the bedrooms. And as she walked toward her brother's bedroom, the memories of the sad past had slowly awaken in her mind, flowing in like water through a funnel, waking up emotions that had long been asleep. In her mind, the fateful, tragic day began to flicker and play...



It was a Summer. That Saturday morning her parents were preparing for the planned picnic on a beach resort, fifteen kilometers away from their house to the next town. Her mama and papa were very busy packing up things and putting them to the baggage trunk of their car, and were crisscrossing between the kitchen and the garage. She was also dressing up herself for the trip, and at the same time sneaking time to play with his younger brother. Her elder sister was upstairs busy doing something, too. She didn't knew where his grandfather was, and she didn't think of looking for him. When she went to call her mama and asked her to help her zip her dress, nobody was attending her brother Jason. And nobody noticed him walked out the front door and into the lawn.

She heard, and she swore her mama and papa heard, too, their car's engine came to life. She was excited to climb into the car, and so she ran hurriedly toward the living room from the kitchen, and past the open front door.

Her grandfather was on the wheel, maneuvering the car backward from the garage into the driveway when he heard a loud thud from behind, like a large piece of wood hitting the rear bumper or a metal striking the rubber of the wheel. He thought it was the latter, as he felt the car rolled over it after he checked the back with the side mirrors but saw nothing. When he come to a stop and checked the side mirrors again, he saw her standing a few steps from behind the car, screaming and shouting at him. Her grandfather felt a sudden rush of fear crawled up his spine, and when he stepped outside he saw a pair of shoes under the car. Wearing them was his grandson, Jason.

Her mama was on the living room, calling at her elder sister Maggie and telling her to come down for they were now about to leave. Her mother looked around but couldn't find her and Jason. When she called their names, her mother heard the shrieking of her horrified voice and her grandfather's heart-pounding, mournful cry.

Alert, her father dashed past her mother toward the front door. With fear and horror shot at her mother like a thousand volts of electricity, she ran hurriedly after him, the Tupperwares filled with food smashed to the tiled floor as she lost hold of them.

It was the most horrifying day of their lives, to see Jason lying on her grandfather's arms soaked in blood, lifeless. The ambulance came too late to save him, and the news of his death from the medics caused so much confusion, disbelief, anger, anguish and loss all at once.



Her brother's bed squeaked as she stood up. She walked toward the window that faced the asphalt road that ran parallel to the house. From there the dirt road snaked for several meters toward the house. Directly under the bedroom was the garage, its driveway met the dirt road near the front door. The wind that swept inside the room smelt of wildflowers and dust and rotten wood. After closing the windows, she went out of the room, down the stairs, into the living room, and out of the house.

She was standing under the mango tree when she heard a car rolled to a stop next to hers. She turned her head to see who it was. A woman in her late thirties stepped out of the car, looked around and saw her. At first she couldn't recognize the woman, she couldn't tell who she was who's now smiling and waving at her. When they were both halfway to meet each other, she realized it was her childhood friend, Carmen. It was her best friend thirty years ago. And she was Carmen's long lost friend. She ran toward her to hug her and tell her how happy she was to see her for the first time in years.

When excitement and joy sank in, they sat on the mango tree's protruding roots and talked about so many things in between the last time they had seen each other and now. They exchanged life stories, and talked of the changes and the new things that had come to their lives. They talked about their past, their present, and their own families.

When silence wrapped around them, her friend turned her head toward the low, bare mountains that rose breathtakingly four kilometers away from behind the house. The mountains were light green not because of trees but because of weeds and cogon grass. No single tree dotted any of the mountains, and under the mid-afternoon sun they stood elegantly and beautifully against the bushy landscape.

"I still remember how you'd always wanted to go there," Carmen said, her eyes staring at the scenic view.

She smiled. She felt very happy to know how much Carmen had remembered about her and their childhood. After a while, she asked, "You've already been there?"

"Many times."

"I still want to go there."

"Let's go there now."

"Really? You don't mind?"

"No. Not at all."

"This is exhilarating," she beamed.

Carmen smiled.

"But I have one favor to ask you."

"What is it?"

"Let's drop by at my grandfather's grave."

"Sure."

They walked to their cars and drove off toward the cemetery. Along the way, the mountains came clearer and bigger, and so was the amount of peace she'd never felt before in her life. She might never knew it, but she was already on the road to reconciliation with her past and redemption of herself from hating her grandfather. He died a week ago right before her eyes, just an hour after they'd talk inside the Silver Halo Shelter. But she knew he died a happy man, for they had already forgiven each other before it was all too late.






Photograph by Jacob Krejci. Please CLICK HERE to visit the owner's Flickr site. Thanks!