Nectar Behind the Clouds

Chapter 4 - The House

So, this was the house where I spent half of my childhood. It was spotless. The marble floors gleamed and smelled of the familiar strong detergent everyone used. All the furniture was made from different trees, but I recognize the polish of narra in the form of long benches and the low table, carved into the spirals and flowers.

The last time I was here, I had stamped my foot and grabbed hold of the stairs, my Papa said. I had crossed my arms. The neighbors then heard how upset I was. I touched the screen door where I had just entered and tried to feel like I was returning home.

But there was no reflection of my past on the floors. I did not hear any echoes of laughter. No tiny child was hopping or jumping or skipping, no playing with toys that she kept in the cupboards. I did not see my mother's existence. I do not feel her presence. No ghost, no spirit, no clue that we have ever been here, save for lola.

I thought--I don't know--as soon as I entered, a wave of memories and emotion would wash over me like the ones on the beach. I thought it would sweep my hair like the night wind and welcome me in its arms.

But I did not feel anything. For all her love for us, lola seemed to clean away the mess we made.

It was charming, though. It was like our apartment, but cozier. Aside from the smooth marble floors, her walls were made of solid concrete. She had wide windows, almost reaching the ceiling, with thick, cream-colored, see-through curtains.

The dining table, too large for just one person—well two people now—was separated by that huge bookshelf with nothing on it except for their old diplomas, encased in glass.

Wow. It says that a certain hopeful Gloria Torrez graduated with honors teaching in the city, another city, same with my lolo, Mercelito Garcia who graduated in architecture, also with Latin honors. There's something. I got my love of books from them both, maybe.

"You would always creep up on him in the middle of his work," Lola said from behind me. I didn't notice she entered the screen door. Papa was laying our suitcase on the ground. Lola went to my side. She gently took the diploma from my hands and softly thumbed the name of her husband, smiling. "You would ask a million questions and your lolo would have to make up something when he didn't know the answer." She laughed a little. "You would always make a face when you weren't satisfied. Like you were chewing a lemon wedge."

"I must have been a handful," I said.

"You were always a delight," my lola said, firmly. "You made us young and whole."

I didn't know how to respond, so I stayed silent. A great feeling to prove my worth came upon me.

"You're going to stay here for a while." Papa looked sad when he said it. At last, the real reason behind this journey.

When we were alone, Papa and I sat quietly on Lola's porch. The mountain breeze still carried a whiff of cool salt. There was a rocking chair in her garden, inviting someone to stare at the many flowers swallowed by darkness. It looked like no one had sat in its lonely space for some time. Lola was upstairs, humming, as she prepared my old room, the one above hers.

Papa smiled as we listened to her humming. "At least somebody's happy." He was holding a bottle of beer. He pressed it to his mouth and took a sip. "This is a wonderful place, Mikha."

He only drank on a Saturday with his work friends, and he only drank the milder ones. He was happier then, back when beers helped him to unwind with men who laughed the same way as him. My mother hated joining in, but she did it for him. My father is not a drunkard, but sometimes I feel he still drinks to this day because the taste brings him close to the time when everything was easier. There was someone to talk to. There were things to talk about. We were still a young family. I miss the nights when he drank to speak loosely, instead of drinking to help keep the words inside him.