Sweet childhood of mine

“In the life of everyone there is a limited number of experiences which are not written upon the memory, but stamped there with a die; and in the long years after, they can be called up in detail, and every emotion that was stirred by them can be lived through anew; these are the tragedies of life.” – James Weldon Johnson.

Some people say childhood memories functions to guide us in our present behavior and sometimes to predict the future outcomes of our life. Well, I can’t say that’s true, but there is some sense in it. Childhood memories can be referred to as “mental time travel”, a process only unique to humans.

Do you still remember your childhood? I vividly remember mine. My mom and I went to our neighborhood bakery every day. The smell of newly baked bread, just taken out of the oven; the heavenly mamon with lemon sweets on top of them, how one bite will let the bready goodness cluster in your upper palate; the ube twirly circle cookies sprinkled with sugar enough to give you type 1 diabetes. And, my God, the pudding. Crunchy outside, chewy and soft inside.

I remember drawing my favorite character Son-Goku from Dragonball Z on a paper that turned out to be my mom’s report for work, catching grasshoppers and dragonflies early in the morning, and sprinting straight home when I hear the music of TV Patrol’s opening billboard that signals nightfall.

Growing up with siblings was pretty rough and fun. My sister and I were so close that I called her the “overlord spawn of darkness.” I remember how she bullied me almost on a daily basis and how she would tell me that our parents just found me from a trash can.

But she did give me favors – like exempting me from an initiation for her KKC or the karate kids club. I love her to death.

Oh, to live in those days – carefree, stress-free, and the only thing I would think about was school, friends, and food.

But not everything are rainbows and butterflies in my world. There had been ups and downs, shortcomings, and misunderstandings in our family. But whose family has not? I learned that material things will fade away, but family will always be there.

And for my family is a poem I wrote:

The little white house in the end of the street.

It was small but full of warmth and love.

It had holes and leaks, but it was worthy to be called a good home.

The dad was always away, so the mom and sister will do. They were so close, but the small house made them closer. Every night the mother will cry, when the children is asleep. Thinking that her son and daughter will have nothing to eat. At times the only food will be a pack of noodles and some bread bought in a nearby bakery. It was small but full of warmth and love.

When children were sick, vicks and kisses will be enough. Again, the mother was crying.

But these children.. they were tough. Pawnshop was a constant place for the mother. She would sometimes pawn her own wedding ring just to get by.

The children never knew,

Every night they would cuddle under one blanket and feel each other’s toes.

You can hear the bed creaking, some foam stuck out It was small but full of warmth and love.

Life was hard, but they have each other.

At the turn of the tide, through hardwork and dedication. Business boomed, money flowed.

Parents harvesting all that they sowed.

Priorities changed, they were always busy.

Food was now abundant but the chairs were always empty. Long talks became smaller.

Long hugs become texts.

The children now have everything they want and they are grateful.

Now all on their own, the boy went to the books, the girl for her looks.

All they had was each other,

Now all grown up, Continents apart

But still oh so grateful in their heart.

Always smiling but hiding something sad. Wishing for that past love that they all had.

That last big white house in the street.

It used to be small, full of warmth and love.

They used to though.