i remember...#4

Christmas Past. 1973. I am 20.

Mother stares wide-eyed at the humongous Christmas basket. With her good left hand she turns the basket around, being careful not to tear the cellophane cover as she peers through it, checking the contents of the basket. My young brother, Basil, squats on the floor beside the basket. He touches the cellophane wrap but Mother slaps his arm and he promptly withdraws his hand.

"I'm just looking," he says smiling.

"Then just look."

"Open it," I tell her.

"No, the wrapping is so pretty. It's so nice to look at," she protests.

"Are you going to just stare at it until everything gets spoiled or eaten by ants?"

Mother smiles. Before she could stop me, I yank the glittery ribbon and it comes off along with the fake berry and holly trimmings and they fall on the floor.

"There," I say. "There's a box of Belgian truffles..." I hand her the box. "A can of cashew nuts." She promptly grabs it and places the can on her lap, her paralized right arm protecting it.

As I take out each item, she grabs what she likes and puts it on her lap. Those that she doesn't want to save she hands to my brother. When we finish, only four items can be eaten or used right away, the rest of the goodies ended on her lap.

"Can we have chocolate marble ice cream for tonight?" she asks.

"Ice cream, for Noche Buena?" I say. "You know I can't have anything cold in the evening. My stomach will...."

"Then don't eat it!" she cuts me off.

"Besides, we have ice cream cake in the freezer."

"But I want chocolate marble."

Since my mother had a stroke and became paralyzed a few years ago, I sometimes find myself in reversed roles with her: I the mother and she the child. But it's hard to say no with those wide eyes pleading at you, or the look of resignation that bears just a slight hint of pout.

And so I take a twenty-peso bill from my pitaka and tell Basil to go and get a large tub of chocolate marble ice cream. He goes off with my two younger sisters, Leng and Wowie, with three of the neighborhood kids, as if they were off to a big excursion.

When they come back, they have two large containers of ice cream.

"Two? Don't I get any change?" I ask holding my hand out for change.

Basil shakes his head. "The other one," he says, "is Rocky Road." I sneer at him. "But, it's your favorite!"

"I like that, too," Mother interjects.

And so the family ends up that Christmas eve having spaghetti and ice cream. I eat the spaghetti. The rest of them have spaghetti and ice cream.

i remember...#3

Christmas Past. Manila, 1975.

It is three o'clock in the morning and I am terribly late coming home. My boyfriend Jimmy and I along with our officemates have gone disco dancing. I don't know why I go when I don't dance at all but because Jimmy loves to dance, I feel obliged to go. I take a taxi to go home, but our street is too narrow for the taxi to go in so I have to walk the length of our street. Our street is near the town church and around the church, there are already people who have set up shop and getting ready to ply their wares to people attending the early morning mass. I pass by a woman busy making rice cakes. Older women, devout Catholics are slowly walking their way to the church.

I curse the fact that our house is situated at the very end of the street. The dogs wake up from the loud "clack-clack" noises my platform shoes make on the paved ground. They start to bark. I reach our compound of four houses, ours being one of the two behind. The house in front of us has a dog and this dog wakes up, too, and starts to bark which triggers other dogs to bark, too. The barking, if it lasts too long, would wake my father up, then he would find out I am just coming home.

My two younger sisters, Leng and Vivian and the children from the neighbors' attend the early morning Christmas masses. Leng, who is a deep sleeper, ties a string around her wrist and drops the end outside the window; it is long enough to reach just above the ground and the other children would pull it to wake her up. They turn this going to early mass like an excursion because afterwards my sister would treat them to the rice cakes and other sweets sold around the little market by the church.

Our door does not have a lock. Its "lock" is one of the chairs that we prop so that if anyone tries to get in, the chair will make such a noise that my father, or one of us would surely wake up. There is a hole on the wall, big enough for my arm to go through, reach for the chair and slowly remove it so I can open the door without noise. But the dogs continue to bark and for some reason the chair won't budge from its position. The neighbor's dog ambles near our house and I had to hit it with my shoulder bag so it would go away. That is when I notice the string. I pull it a few times until Len wakes up.

"Alright! Alright," I hear her say. I could imagine her arm going up and down as I pull the string. She opens the window and pokes her head out. "What time is it? It's too dark yet, are you sure it's already four thirty?"

"Shhhhh! It's me, I can't open the door," I say in a hushed voice. "Let me in, quick!"

Through the smokey glass of the louvre window, I make out the image of Leng after she turns on the light. She walks halfway across the living room towards the door then turns and walks back to the wall by the foot of the stairs. There we have a cuckoo clock that often stops running in the middle of the night. Not this night though so she has to turn the hands back. As she does this, she looks at me and I make a gesture by flashing my hand twice for "ten" and one finger. She sets the clock to "eleven and a few minutes".

As she takes the chair off the door, it makes a loud scraping noise. In an instant, my father is out in the living room, seemingly annoyed at the little commotion. The first thing he does is look at the clock. He sees it is a few minutes past eleven.

"You're quite late," he tells me. "Overtime again?" He refers to the fact that ever since my office started on a joint project with Mrs. Marcos, I have always been "working overtime".

"Yeah," I say, fanning myself giving him the impression that I am tired.

"Have you eaten?"

"No," I reply. I glance at the clock and say, "But I'm not going to eat now, I'm really tired. Goodnight." I walk up the stairs with my sister, and he goes back to his bedroom.

As I change to my sleeping clothes, my sister tells me, "Next time, you should only pull the string once and quite gently. For a moment there, I thought I lost my arm!"


In the morning, as he prepares to leave for work, my father notices the cuckoo clock. He checks his watch.

"Damn thing, it must've stopped again during the night," he says to no one in particular. He then pushes the hands of the clock to the proper time. The pendulum stops. My father pulls the chain and gives the pendulum a little nudge for it to start again.

My sisters and I look at each other and make funny faces until our father has stepped out the door. When he is out of our sight, we start to giggle.

i remember....#2

Christmas Past 3. I am 22 years old.

My two teenaged sisters, along with the neighborhood kids, arrive from church in time for our Noche Buena, literally "good night". It has been a family tradition, as is the custom in the predominantly Catholic country, for us to partake of a midnight snack to celebrate the birthday of Jesus Christ.

The table is already set, plates and cups, spoons and forks. The children are excited to have Noche Buena with us. There is a whole leg of ham that has been partly carved by my father, a large platter of spaghetti with corned beef sauce (my father's specialty) sprinkled on top with grated Kraft cheese, fried hot dogs and sausages, sliced queso de bola or cheese ball imported from the Netherlands, hot chocolate, Coke and Mirinda orange soft drinks, and the children all clap as I take out the large ice cream cake from the freezer. The children eat as if they are in a marathon, their eyes surveying each other, keeping track of how many hot dogs Joey has already eaten, or how big Edna would bite her ham. They all laugh as Alex pushes food inside his mouth with one hand while the other reaches for something else on the table. My sisters and our father fuss over the children while we sip our hot chocolate, while painfully conscious that one person is missing from the table. You see, our mother passed away eleven months ago, a few weeks after last Christmas.

My sisters and I have continued our mother's practice of giving food to the neighborhood children, especially those from the farthest end of the street, children who are less fortunate, who would otherwise not have the same food we eat. Ever since my older brother and I had a job, our Christmas table fares have gotten better, especially that a number of our clients would shower us at the office with a lot of gifts of food.

This year, we also have started a tradition with the neighbors' kids, the ones from the three other houses in our compound of four, which we call "monito, monita" or kris kringle. Earlier in the week, we put our names in a container and each had to draw a name. Then we have to buy two gifts, one for the name drawn, and one for the person who draws our name. The gift for the former should cost a little bit more. You can imagine all of the younger kids wishing for their names to be drawn by me. But it doesn't matter, as I would give everyone a small gift anyway, mostly a small envelope with five pesos or ten pesos inside it.

Christmas Past 4. I am 38 years old.

I am alone in my apartment this Christmas Eve. I have set up on my glass top dining table my new china. Two place settings. I pour hot chocolate on my cup and open the small box of sugar dusted doughnuts which I have bought earlier from an Asian doughnut shop I have accidentally found on Sherbourne. The doughnuts remind me of my mother, of a time when she and I were walking along a tree-lined street on our way home from visiting my aunt. We had stopped at a store to buy sugar dusted doughnuts and we ate them as we walked.

I place a single doughnut on her plate and I eat mine with the hot chocolate. It is cold outside, I can tell by the heavy smokes coming from the chimneys of nearby homes and stacks from the taller buildings. The edges of the glass doors to my patio are etched with thin ice that sparkle as the lights from the Christmas tree reflect on them. I wonder if my mother's soul or spirit can be present when she has never been to Canada herself. But we had always believed that spirits can fly to anywhere. My sister Lengleng who lives with her family down at Coxwell in the east end does not like this idea for she is acutely afraid of ghosts.

The telephone rings several times -- friends calling to greet Merry Christmas. My brother who lives in Chicago with his family call as well. I tell him about the doughnuts and he, too, does not like the idea that my mother's spirit would come and visit me, because it would mean that she could visit him in Chicago as well. He tells me, "Tell her I live in Florida."

"You're a nincompoop," I tell him.

i remember....#1

Christmas Past 1. I am five years old.

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.

PROMPT: write about someone who had passed to the other side

muscat, sultanate of oman, 1986

i think it was september or october. i was alone in my bedroom, writing a letter to auntie nene. we had just had a heavy storm, and from my bedroom window, i could see the muddy water running down the low hill on the other side of the property, like brown little ribbons cascading down the barren hill. the clouds had lifted but the general outlook outside was still gloomy.

i had left my bedroom door open as christine, the british girl who was sharing the apartment with me, was spending the weekend at her boyfriend's apartment. she had left the night before and she also left her bedroom door open. our bedroom doors were right opposite each other.

i felt movements in the apartment. i attributed this to air pressure in the building. you know, how your doors would suddenly shut close when another door anywhere in the building would be shut; or how the pilot light in your stove would get extinguished; or the eerie way the curtains would sway just so.

i finished my letter, folded it, placed it inside an envelope and then sealed it. i knew i had just bought some omani stamps the day before and i knew i left them on the credenza in the dining room so i got up to get the stamps. i thought i heard footsteps or heard a "rustle" of movements. i thought they were footsteps but knowing i was alone in the apartment, i didn't think it was anything. it was at this point that i glanced at my bedroom door and i thought i saw someone passed by going towards christine's bedroom.

"christine?" i called out. the envelope fell on the floor and i bent down to pick it up. between looking at the door and looking down reaching for the envelope, i thought i saw a face and it was auntie's face. very briefly, as briefly as a bat of the eyelash. it made me think maybe she was sick or something. i found the stamps in the dining room and drove to post office to mail my letter.

several weeks later, i received a letter from my auntie estrella saying that auntie nene had died - on the date that i wrote my letter.

c.v.summerfield, Oct. 31, 2009

reconnecting with the past

Why is it that as we grow older, the past seems to insistently knock on the door, so to speak? Is it desperation or indifference to our aging body and mind, or is it that, as we notice the sunset glowing red on the horizon, we sit down and watch it vanish, knowing that behind so many sunsets that we have ignored in our busy lives there were some memories that we buried which we invariably never wanted to face or saving for a more quiet time to enjoy them?

You start to remember that friendship in high school that you had made which you didn't follow through after graduation. You went on with your life and so did your friend. Once in a while you stopped and wondered how she or he is doing? Has she or he found a friend better than you? Who do you blame for letting this friendship just disappear? You start to think, did you ever make an attempt at finding out.

Well, look, the sunset is glowing gold and the sky is turning to deep dark blue. Age has got to do with wanting to reconnect, even if you do not want to. You have succeeded in your life, on your own terms. You played by the rule, now you want some peace and quiet to reminisce, to enjoy of what was left. You pick up the phone and find out if your friend is still there, but the wrong voice answers. You wonder what has happened? Then regret sets in, a sense of loss overwhelms you. But is it worth it? Didn't the old folks say the past is past, it is gone. But your mind asks you, is it?

In our teenage years or in high school, our character was reinforced in its mould. It was the time when we were left alone to make the little decisions - prelude to the big ones we would make later on - you chose who your friends were, you adopted the study habits that are comfortable for you, you made your first alliances, no matter that the choice of alliance was wrong or defective, because that was how we learned. We were permitted to make mistakes because that is the only way you could see the wrongs and the rights. You chose that pretty girl with the long hair who seemed so quiet over the girl who laughed out loud. Or you chose that dashing cadet over the quiet mousy intellectual who slipped a love letter inside your literature book.

And that was how your life went. Those became one of your measuring sticks. Was it too late finding out that the quiet girl was a scheming little welch who had no respect for others; and the girl who possessed a loud laugh became a nurse at the paediatric hospital and so well loved by the children patients? The handsome cadet never finished college, worked odd jobs and never made anything of himself. And you find out that the mousy quiet boy who slipped that love letter in your literature book is the president of a large international company? And you ask yourself: was it that your measuring stick was short and uncompromising, or was it too long you got lost in your measurements?
c.v.summerfield; november 23, 2007