Mother lifts the white mosquito net, crawls in and lightly slaps my leg. "Wake up," she says, "I have a surprise for you."
Before I could say anything, she crawls back outside the mosquito net. She unhooks the ears of the mosquito net from the nails on the wall. I crawl out, sit on the floor and start to fold my sheet. I put the folded sheet on top of my pillow and wait for her to finish folding the mosquito net. She puts the sheet and the pillow on top of the folded mosquito net and puts them away on a chair in the corner of the room. She rolls the leaf mat and puts it behind that chair.
I stretch my arms up and let out a loud yawn, then press the heels of my hands on each eye to rub off sleep. When I open my eyes again, she is sitting in front of me on the floor, smiling, her hand behind her.
"Close your eyes."
I close my eyes. Then she tells me to open them again.
Before me is a toy tea set - miniature cups, saucers, tea pot, glass, plates, tiny spoons and forks, in very light pink. They are the exact replica of a depression glass tea set, in neat package of pink cardboard and see through plastic.
"I won it at the store," she says. At the variety store at the corner, there is a kind of game called "bunot" or pull where for five cents you get to open a rolled piece of paper you pull out and on it is written a prize. Mother has won the jackpot for that game: the toy tea set.
I thank her and I go to wash my mouth and face carrying the package underneath my arm. When I have finished, I hastily comb my hair so I can sit down with the family for breakfast.
I sit on my spot on the dining table. Mother turns on the kerosene stove and heats up the iron skillet, puts a little cooking oil and starts to fry eggs. Today, being Christmas, we each get a whole egg for breakfast along with two fried sausages. Instead of pandesal or little dinner rolls, we have one loaf of tasty bread, the kind with different colored circles on the plastic cover. Instead of coffee, we have hot chocolate with milk.
When we have finished Mother clears the dining table. Father then hands us our gifts. For my big brother Erick, a set of plastic tools. For my little sister Vilma, a doll. For me, a miniature living room ensuite which he has made from scraps of wood and painted moss green. He arranges them in front of me on the table: a long sofa, a coffee table, two arm chairs on the ends and two small stools. I open my toy tea set and arranged them on the little coffee table.
Christmas Past 2. I am 21 years old.
I place the large ham on a big platter in the middle of the table. My father gives each one of us a thick slice. On the table we have a whole pack of real butter, a big platter of spaghetti with corned beef sauce and grated Kraft cheese, a whole canned Kraft cheese half of which has been sliced. There is also a large loaf of fruit cake peeking from its red cellophane cover, a large platter of jumbo hot dogs, and a large platter of a dozen fried eggs.
My mother, however, opts for a cup of chocolate marble ice cream and dips bits of the tasty bread as she eats it. She takes a slice of the fruit cake, but hands it over for my father to finish when she realizes the fruit cake has been soaked in rhum. She asks for a second serving of chocolate marble ice cream.
"So many food!" she says. "We should save some for New Year." She surveys our dining table, the same one we have had since I was a little girl. It has never before held so much food at one time.
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