Every year, at the end of the month of December, our street is bedazzled by sky lighters and exploding sparklers. Ever since I was a child I have always been daunted by our exploding street, and I’m proud to say that I’m brave enough to reach our gate and observe the radical practice of bombing the supposed-to-be-spectacular night. It was as if I was back in the 1943 where the Allies battle the Nazis and the United States shelling Manila to eradicate the Japanese Imperial Army. But I have always enjoyed it. It gives me the usual thrill. Then in one moment, the year 2012 suddenly became history, and everything will be subjected to the same cycle that happens every 365 days.
Harvest time. My grand-mom has been keeping a root crop in a huge pot in the front yard. Today, she harvested a handful of ube or taro after almost a year. I bet she’d make another delicious bowl of creamy halaya complete with butter and sugar on top. She would always make one when we were little—while my cousins and I would play around in the afternoon. The smell of it would waft all over the place and we would settle down and wait for it to be cooked. Others would put the ube on top of halo-halo, but I would pop it quickly inside my mouth as the soft purple creamy desert melt along with the memories of childhood.
An hour before I officially leave Wonderland. A specimen of the last hours of childhood. I just can’t believe time fly so quickly. But of course, I’d use the cliche phrase, I will remain “forever young”.
Ce soir à 19h, après ma classe sur CommTheo, dans Ave. Quezon et Ave. Timog. Avec mes trois cousines, les filles du frère de ma mère et sa femme—la femme qui porte les fleurs—(ma tante), le pére de ma tante (la femme du frère de mamàn), et mes grands-parents. La soeur de mamàn (ma tante) et ses enfants (mes cousins) avec son grand-fils (mon neveu et le fils de mon cousin). Et enfin mon papa et ma soeur.