My Tita Goring practically raised me. She was my first teacher. She taught me how to read. She introduced me to kikay stuff like getting me a vanity set when I was in primary school. She gave me my first boutonniere-- a picture of a Menudo member. They were cool back then.
And then she taught me to drive a bicycle. At seven years old, it was sort of a rite of passage for kids in my province. We used the open field of my elementary school to practice. I had my exhilarating ride there, bruises and wounds. And we had the most beautiful backdrop. All the santan flower in their beds are blooming because it was summer. And the majestic acacia trees seemed to approve of the kids' activities as they bowed their leaves to serve as a canopy; shielding us from the harsh afternoon sun.
|Ok, I wasn't this chic back then. And until now. But you get the drift, eh?|
And then the years just flew by. Am now a married woman. And my Tita is still at home. She doesn't have her good sight anymore. In fact it's the reason she gave why she didn't attend my wedding. She just stayed in her hotel room. Good thing her room had a balcony. She was able to see from afar the ceremony. But not the reception.
And I forgot to thank her in my little speech. In the whirlwind of things, it slipped from my mind.
From my reverie born the strongest of desires to go home. See her; listen to her endless stories and complaints. And bring her little joys like sweets and her vitamins. Right now, am looking at promo fares. Sigh. I think I sorely miss my family back home.
No amount of cosmopolitan living can override the provincial life I temporarily left behind. For always, I'd catch myself drifting back... time after time.