fragments: memories of childhood

It was 7 am, i woke up with my palm clutching my mom's. I've been holding it the whole night but i couldn't feel the warmth i am suppose to feel after almost half a day of holding hers. It was so numb i felt like holding a dead man's hand. So coarse and dry my tears would never be enough to drench even a part of it..

These were hands who once washed my ass after soiling my fresh-from-Saudi Duty-Free Pampers (kids barely wore diapers during the late 80's, my tita recounts...) These were also the same hands who slapped me on my cheek when i shouted back at her because i didn't want her sleeping with our tindero. Fine, she's single. Seven years of widowhood could have been terribly miserable for her she needs some company, but i didn't like the idea of having a helper for a step-daddy. i think that's awful. i will always love my papa, even if we always get a lot of bluish-red bruises from him.

Yeah, that was a horrible childhood. Back then we used to have papags covered with bamboo strips as beddings. Our househelps used to sleep on those papags. So when we get low grades, my dad would start getting screwed up he'll start pulling bamboo strips from the papags and whip us real good.

That was a really awful. All eyes would be on us and on our skins. Our teachers would be thinking of escalating this issue to Bantay Bata 163. Friends would huddle around us and ask if we're just fine. Well of course we aren't. Can't you see our skins are swelling? We would evade any close contact to the sisters, as this would be a serious issue for them. we've had enough of "issues" so to speak anyway...

Which brings me back to reality. All i could see is just a bleak future for our family. If my mom survives, how in the world are we gonna take care of her? The tindahan she left for us wouldn't pay much for our daily needs, wants, monthly dues plus bumbays to boot. If my mom dies then that would be the scariest part of my life. How in the world am i gonna feed five mouths, or raise them just like any ordinary kid-next-door? two are in grade school, and the other two adolescents. I am especially concerned of their formation years... and i'm not doing any good as a kuya to them. (duh! like there's something like kuya factor)

Yeah. me and my fucked-up life. I only care about my needs, like i need attention; i need guidance, i need help... i need i need i need (ad infinitum)... Im so selfish, that's why i bought my self TheUnbearableLightnessofBeing, DaVinciCode and other books while leaving them on their last pairs of clothes my parents bought back then. I'm so selfish i'd rather date girls to starbucks or jollibee than buy them pasalubong when i get home. I can't even think of giving them birthday gifts like what they really deserve.

Funny i dream of giving them (or helping them) live a normal life, this oh-so-ordinary life i've been yearning to have, when all i do is to make myself feel comfy, safe and warm. Yeah i'm working my ass off 24/7 but where does my money go?
Taxi fare? Lunch at KFC (and treating some friends along for a good meal)? books? celfone load? pastries on coffee houses (coz a frappé would cost more than a hundred peso)
Yeah right. everyone thinks i'm the oh-how-so-heroic kuya who saves the world of his siblings by wearing his life out. and he's not thinking of getting odd jobs (which would make anyone wonder how would it ever feed the luxurious lifestyle he can't get out of his system).

These things make me guilty.

And when i remember my mom... it makes me frustrated about life. why do i have to live this life. can't i have a life where, somehow, papa would coach me daring moves and feats on the court, or biking with him along edsa or roxas boulevard. or the five of us on a sunny, sunday noon at the aristocrat or max's (well, jollibee...)

But how could that possible? Papa's been faraway from us since childhood. He never brushed my hair when i get 100s on my quarterly exams. i dont even remember talking about anything dads should talk with their sons, like cars, sports or girls... i was too young to talk about the first girlfriend i would ever have (...). Or how about taking things easy, sitting back and enjoying life. A drink or two and a puff of dreamy smoke should say that.

but he never drinks. he never smokes too. and neither do i.

i have strangled them too much on my tales. all down the drain...

enough of these bitter memories