The house in Poblacion Norte, Caba La Union, Philippines was where we grew up. When I came along, my grandmother, Nanang, we called her, took care of the three of us – Mikael, Ashley, and me. Nanang raised us when mom and dad were away for work. We lived in a petite house. It had one floor the size of an average high school classroom that we used as a living room, kitchen, and dining room, all in one. Two corners of the first floor had a set of 4 wooden stairs that lead to two separate bedrooms, elevated 3 feet from the ground – one for my siblings and I to share, the other for Nanang. The architecture of our home was neither Victorian nor modern. It was a combination of what we could afford and what was enough to protect us from the scorching heat. Although it was not the typical American home, we still had a roof above our heads, and that was all that mattered. The roof was made of tin, red like the earth that stained my feet when I played barefoot. Nanang let the windows open, the ones that were planted above the sink and stovetops, as if to make the neighbors envious of her traditional Filipino cooking. “Mangan tayon!” she would exclaim out the window. That was our call to go inside for lunch and the smell of freshly made pancit always made me run back home faster.
Everyday, well, it felt like everyday to me, we had a visitor or two stop by to have quick chats with Nanang. Our house in Poblacion Norte did not have an exact address. No street name. No house number. Just relative locations and simple hand gestures that lead visitors to us. Just a heavenly aroma of sautéed vegetables and seasoned meat with the melodious sound of Nanang Glory’s voice bringing me home.
you have been, still are, and
forever will be missed.
thank you for your unwavering
love and faith.
