some homes you can't go back to again (part II)
Wednesday 19 Mar 2003
I should've known what to expect when I finally went back to Pasig. I knew it was a museum, knew that it was nothing like what I'd remember -- but I still went back anyway, nursing some vague hope that I'd see something familiar, something I could take back with me, because the memories I have now are faded and vague.
But Patsy wasn't exaggerating when she described how they gutted the place, filling in the old garden, wiping the decorations from the walls, and leaving the rooms stark, white and ever so empty. My mom's grip on my hand tightened as we walked in, and I could remember her looking around, as if lost, then slowly saying "this used to be a ball room."
And it was with those words that she took me on a verbal tour of my grandparent's old house, letting words lay out ghostly images of rooms that once were. We walked up a flight of stairs, up to a landing that stood below a window of yellow glass, and for a brief second I remembered a couch in this landing, and how the yellow light always made it feel it like sunset.
"This was the dining room, and there used to be a dining table here that was all carved from one solid piece of wood, and next to that was the entrance to your great-uncle's apartment. You remember, him? The doctor? The one who spoiled you so? And over there was the library."
I turned, looking for that room where I spent so many evenings.
And I saw a blank wall, and an archway filled in.
I must have stared at that wall for only a few seconds. If this was some overly sentimental back-to-roots story, I would've probably walked up and touched it and tried to will it away, but instead, I just stood there, trying not to let my disappointment show and trying to remind myself that I should've expected this.
I should've known what to expect when I finally went back to Pasig. I knew it was a museum, knew that it was nothing like what I'd remember -- but I still went back anyway, nursing some vague hope that I'd see something familiar, something I could take back with me, because the memories I have now are faded and vague.
But Patsy wasn't exaggerating when she described how they gutted the place, filling in the old garden, wiping the decorations from the walls, and leaving the rooms stark, white and ever so empty. My mom's grip on my hand tightened as we walked in, and I could remember her looking around, as if lost, then slowly saying "this used to be a ball room."
And it was with those words that she took me on a verbal tour of my grandparent's old house, letting words lay out ghostly images of rooms that once were. We walked up a flight of stairs, up to a landing that stood below a window of yellow glass, and for a brief second I remembered a couch in this landing, and how the yellow light always made it feel it like sunset.
"This was the dining room, and there used to be a dining table here that was all carved from one solid piece of wood, and next to that was the entrance to your great-uncle's apartment. You remember, him? The doctor? The one who spoiled you so? And over there was the library."
I turned, looking for that room where I spent so many evenings.
And I saw a blank wall, and an archway filled in.
I must have stared at that wall for only a few seconds. If this was some overly sentimental back-to-roots story, I would've probably walked up and touched it and tried to will it away, but instead, I just stood there, trying not to let my disappointment show and trying to remind myself that I should've expected this.