Some four years ago, I went home to San Fernando, in Ticao Island, to reclaim the boundaries of my grandparents’ home.
At the municipio, I secured the services of a surveyor.
On the day prescribed by the assessor, I went to the vacant lot, right behind the church. The surveyor had done her job: she had called all the owners surrounding the area.
A day before that, I was informed they had cut all the trees that were planted. All of them were removed, except an old tree the people in the area believed to be enchanted.
If they had cut all the trees, except for one, why was there still one standing? Well, even love can fail us through years and distances. I did not recognize in the sunset the old Atemoya tree. This is the enchanted tree, not that pretentious giant scaring people with its ancient height. With its luscious fruit, yellow, fleshy, sweet and soft when ripe, the tree attracted children who could climb it, with its branches offering kind stairways. The encanto there had been bothered and caused afflictions, which were cured by Nanay Gurang.
The observers had increased at the gate, but they were far from me. They could not see me. I was talking to the tree and calling my sister, Lilibeth. “You are still here. The tree-cutter did not see you. See, you are still here. We forgot about you.” I was in tears, like a fool, like a small boy.
Each year I talk to my siblings what we could do with the property. These talks were practical, business-minded in many ways. I have not told them yet about my plan.
This is my plan. When rebuilt, the house would have its old structure. The paint, which was an odd mixture of light blue and misty ochre, would be used. The living room would be the same: sofa on one side and an empty space before the bright, brown floor goes down 5 or 6 inches to a darker floor of the dining area. I am not sure if I would have a toilet at the rear left of the kitchen. It is said one occupant there discovered her helper had an abortion and dumped the tiny fetus in the toilet bowl.
The dining table would be the same—huge and heavy to hold my grandmother Emilia’s coffee grinder. The window would be wide open so you could reach outside to gather avocado in the morning. From the kitchen, one climbs down to a pantaw. This was a wooden platform that allowed one to wash and dry up after coming from a bathhouse shrouded by guava tree.
There used to be an outhouse. We will keep it bigger and whiter.
My grandparents’ room would still face the street. The altar inside would have the huge yellow Perdon candle. Everything in this room is about redemption. On the table would be my Lola’s Nuestra Señora de Salvacion, below her feet dangling cherubs clinging in supplication, an assurance that we all could just hold on to Mary’s hem and throne and swing mightily like a star to salvation.
From the window of my grandparents’ room, an old store used to house spirits of priests. My grandmother prayed for them always.
Cousins tell me when the moon is full, brave men follow this woman with long hair. She walks up the stone staircase, lingers on the porch, her lovely profile visible in the night and disappears when they call her.
She, not the apparition of headless priests, should be part of our new grandparents’ home. She is not a white lady, but our memories left in the island, forever and loving the place of a grand and sweet childhood.
E-mail: titovaliente@yahoo.com.
Image credits: Jimbo Albano