i never lived in manila.

i lived in a suburb, the vast, the huge, the diverse quezon city. there, we stomped katipunan avenue, loyola heights, tandang sora, and infamous diliman.

in diliman, my mother birthed four children, one stillborn, in legendary area 1. i don't remember across the street from where we lived, i just remember the houses behind us, the vacant lot next door, and the long, asphalted and pot-holed agoncillo street. we were #50-or-something. you pass an ivy-encrusted acacia, a palm tree, and right under a starapple tree, you park your car in our dirt driveway.

you ascend clay tiles and then a pebbled walkway and knock on frosted glass front doors. one time my parents left the front door keys inside our house and my dad had to remove four pieces of the glass shuttered windows and ordered me to climb inside and open the door for them from there. i only was concerned about getting cut by the glass, even as none of the shutters were broken, and i detested my mother's clucking nonesense to be careful.

i was a pirate of the 40 seas, and took my time climbing the window and then jumping from there to the deep brown marron tiled floor of our sala. as i trotted to the front door, all the lights asleep and the house echoing my footsteps, ghosts greeted me from all sides, "what are you doing here!" as i protested how they don't recognize me, i thought, "wow, so this is how thieves would rob our house!"

i dreaded the front door, dreaded my parents' expectations that it took me so long, dreaded to take the world back into my own hiding place, dreaded to share my ghosts with others, but i turned the lock and greeted my parents' bemused faces.

¶ 7/23/2004 05:32:00 PM