𝒫𝒶𝑔𝑒𝓈 𝒻𝓇𝑜𝓂 𝑀𝓎 𝑀𝒾𝓃𝒹

Introduction

Some places are more than just locations—they are pieces of us, stitched into our souls. This is the story of my childhood, a life cradled by the sea, shaped by the love of my grandparents, and now, a distant memory I carry with me.

Even miles away, in the stillness of my night shifts, I find myself returning to the home that no longer exists. But maybe, just maybe, home was never lost—it was always within me.

I was born into the embrace of the ocean breeze, the whisper of the trees, and the warmth of a home built on love and resilience. Just three days old when my grandparents took me in, I grew up surrounded by nature’s untouched beauty, far from the chaos of the city.

Our house was a sanctuary, standing proudly on stilts in the middle of a forest. Towering mango, jackfruit, guyabano, avocado, and paho trees surrounded us, their branches heavy with fruit. To the right, a lush vegetable garden thrived; to the left, a dense forest whispered secrets only the wind could understand.

Behind our home, a murky creek wound through the land, its waters still and mysterious. In front, rows of kalamansi trees stood like sentinels, their tiny citrus fruits glowing in the sunlight. Beside them, a papaya tree stretched skyward, its orange fruits hanging ripe, ready to be picked.

Just ten minutes away, the ocean awaited—a vast, endless stretch of blue, calling to me like an old friend.

Near the shore stood an ancient oak tree, its roots deep and gnarled, its branches stretching wide like arms protecting the land. People believed it was enchanted, that at night, you could hear the laughter of unseen children or the distant sound of crying.

Some even said it held a buried treasure, hidden for generations, waiting for the right soul to find it. But to us, it was simply part of home. We never heard the whispers of lost spirits, never felt fear beneath its shade. Maybe it wasn’t haunted at all—maybe it was watching over us, shielding us from dangers we would never come to know.

Some of my fondest memories were of days spent with my Papang. Whenever he sprayed insecticide on the mango trees, my sisters and I would run beneath them, playing and laughing as he worked. I was five, maybe ten. I didn’t have many friends—just my two sisters.

At that time, our mother was living in Zamboanga City, and we only saw her occasionally. It was Mamang and Papang who truly raised us, filling our lives with love and security.

We grew up in a simple life, but we never felt poor. They made sure we had everything we needed. They bought us the latest toys—the same ones kids in the city had. They enrolled us in a prestigious kindergarten, wanting the best for us.

But of all the gifts we received, my favorite was something money couldn’t buy—Mamang’s handmade crochet clothes.

She would sit by the window, her fingers weaving patterns with patience and love. Each dress she made was beautiful, intricate, and unique. No two pieces were the same. I still remember the soft feel of the yarn against my skin, the warmth of her hands in every stitch.

Wearing them made me feel special, as if I was wrapped in her love.

My Mamang was a TLE teacher during the weekdays, but on Sundays, she transformed into something else entirely—a businesswoman, a cook, and a storyteller.

She ran her own eatery, filling the air with the rich aroma of home-cooked meals. The scent of the ocean blended with the sweet, inviting smells of bibingka, puto, biko, suman, and other delicacies she prepared.

Sundays were also barter days. Fishermen from the neighboring island arrived with baskets of fresh fish, sea urchins, and seaweed, exchanging them for rice, vegetables, or whatever they needed.

Meanwhile, my Papang hosted gatherings—relatives, friends, and neighbors came for firing range practice, meetings, and long conversations under the shade of trees.

And oh, how he loved his chickens—especially his roosters. Sundays weren’t just for food and trade; they were also for cockfighting. He had built his own cockpit, and people would travel from different places just to watch.

Sundays were never dull.
But the memory that lingers most is of my mother. The day she came home and we built a house by the beach, it felt like a dream.

I remember one stormy afternoon, the rain falling in heavy sheets, the waves roaring against the shore. Most people would have stayed inside, but not her. She took us by the hand and led us into the ocean.

We swam in the storm, the waves tossing us like tiny boats, but I wasn’t afraid—not with her there. That day, I learned to never fear the sea, no matter how wild it became.

That day, I felt invincible.

That day, I felt safe.

That day, I understood that home wasn’t just a place—it was the people who held you close, even when the waves were strong.

But childhood is fleeting. The home I once knew, the people who filled it with laughter, the Sundays that were always full—now, they are just echoes of the past.

The house is gone. The trees, the market days, the lively Sundays—all swallowed by time.

The laughter of my grandparents, their warm hands, the security of their love—all lost to the years that passed too quickly.

Sometimes, I close my eyes, and I can still hear the ocean, still smell the damp earth after the rain, still see the golden afternoons spent running barefoot in the sand.

But when I open them, reality rushes back in. I am no longer that child, and that place is no longer my home.

And now, here I am, in a foreign land—working night shifts in Saudi Arabia. The hospital halls are quiet, the hours long, and I don’t have much to do except let my mind wander.

And so, I find myself here, lost in memories of a life that once was.

The waves I once swam in are now thousands of miles away.

The hands that once held mine are now only a distant warmth in my heart.

The Sundays filled with laughter, the smell of my Mamang’s cooking, the bustling barter of fishermen—they exist only in my memory.

Yet, no matter how far I am, no matter how much time has passed, a part of me is still there.

A child standing by the shore, watching the waves roll in, waiting—just waiting—hoping that, even for a moment, I could go back.

But maybe home was never lost.

Maybe home has always been within me.