The door’s always open. But you’re never there. The lamp’s always burning but you’re never there. Your parents are waiting but you’re never there. Your community is waiting but you’re never there. In a country bound by close family ties and enduring culture, stories about coming home have been passed on through generations. What tale can you tell?
Green is how my story starts. The road to home offered me a glimpse of how lush the Cordilleran forests are. In the city, the trees are traded for skyscrapers. The hills and mountains I beheld are plains of cityscapes where I work. The waterfalls we passed by artificial fountains where I came from. On the road to home, I saw beauty.
Black is the emerging color as I set foot in my community’s soil. As it started to rain, I quietly enjoyed the raindrops as though they were unsung melodies I never heard throughout my stay in the city. The rain came to a stop and I heard the crickets merrily playing their violin and the frogs croaking their way to evening.
Purple is the color that engulfed me as I walked along the pavement illuminated by the moon. The trek goes up, and I began to feel the enjoyment that came with the breath of fresh air and the ensuing silence. Over the distance, I saw yellow – the light emanating from a small window. I smiled. After months of being away, I am finally home.
Brown is the color of our home’s old door waiting to welcome me. I gazed at the old and small house where I called my home for the past 22 years. It seemed to tell me that it saw it’s time and that the pillars that hold it together holds untold stories of many generations. With pride, I remembered the first day we arrived. That day was white.
Gray is the color of my father’s hair as he quietly opened the door. With a faint smile he said, “ay inmali ka ubpay adi” (“I didn’t know you were coming home”). I smiled with glee as I remembered what changes brought the two of us after all these years. Here we are, standing face to face. I saw my face in his – a split image of two generations.
Red is the color of the creaking floor as I made my way to our living room. With only a table and a few chairs adorning the room, I marvel at the simplicity of country life. In the city, I sat on soft chairs. But tonight, I loved the feeling of hardwood in my bottom. I looked around to see how little our home hasn’t changed: humble yet warm and old yet imposing.
Pink is the color of my unmade bed. I thought how funny it is that I never had to change it all these years. In the city, I saw piles of garbage and wondered how some people seem to easily let their memories go. I pulled a white bed sheet from my own made up closet. I pulled pillowcases and three blankets. I smelled my old pillows. They smelled like home.
Velvet is the sound of the soft knock that came through our door. When I go home, my father would always call for his friends to celebrate. He took a little bottle of spirit from the kitchen and served it in the living room. He told me to cook us a meal as he and his friends sat down to enjoy their small drink. As I entered the kitchen, I breathed something familiar: the fireplace.
Orange is the color of fire burning quietly in the fireplace. It’s meant to keep the house warm is what I was told when I thought that we only light up the fireplace when we have something to cook. Since my mother went up to the heavens, I sustained my sanity sitting near the fireplace watching the wood turn into ashes. I sat there contemplating.
Blue is the sound of music as I heard our visitors quietly sing. Then I heard my name. I heeded the call and ventured into the living room. Taking a peek, I heard one of my neighbors say, “ay birthday wenno gawis ubpay nan kasin sumaa?” (Are we celebrating your birthday or your coming home?”) I paused and with happiness I said, “gawis ubpay nan kasin sumaa” (It’s good to be home again).
White is the color of the days that passed by as I enjoyed my vacation. Each day, I encountered people. They are old friends, classmates, neighbors, and my father’s pals. They spoke of people who turn their back from their roots. They spoke of people who forget where their home actually is. They spoke of people who leave but who never came back.
In the remaining days of my stay in Bagnen Proper (a small town located in Lower Bauko, Mountain Province), I thought in silence about how fast a small town can change. The faces I’ve seen, although withering with age, are still full of vitality. The frail bodies of the old people can barely walk but they are still full energy. The town is quiet as it continues to enjoy the fog, the hail, and the cool weather. I’ll never trade these for anything. So to you, dear reader, perhaps this is the right time to hear your own people sing, “Gawis Ubpay Nan Kasin Sumaa.” What tale can you tell?
Thank you to PranongCreative for the featured image.