Reyner

I wake up to a memory of living in my grandmother's house, where I spent four years of my early teens — and I'm grateful. Those years were probably the most nurturing period in my 28 years of life, because while I was being constantly ravaged by chaos, there, I healed like a lobster beneath a rock after shedding its carapace. I remember waking up to my grandmother's early morning routine of preparing breakfast just before the first ray of light. Sometimes I would catch her slouched on a chair relishing the faint crackle of the burning firewood, an orange glow dancing on her face. Everything was dark and imperceptible except for that image of her basking in the incandescent ambient light. It's almost as if I could hear the thought simmering in her head. I remember throwing that door open, only to be jolted awake by the spine-tingling chill of the early morning fog, the chlorophyll-rich scent of vegetation flooding my senses. Up in the sky the moon beckoned in its solitude, waltzing with the clouds blinks before the sun takes its place. After years being away, I recall that the sky in the province was always the widest and most striking, with nothing but billowing coconut fronds to block the moonlight for a few seconds as the trees swayed in the breeze. For those few seconds in the wee hours of morning, I felt less alone. I felt in harmony with the universe. It felt like I was meant to be here. And for that I am grateful. Holding on to that thought is what has kept me going. That one day, I could come back, but with half the baggage—hopefully.