Oedipal as of Old

Yesterday, Christmas, we attended a sort of family reunion in Manila.

It was at an apartment block near Libertad station with a street packed and festive during this time of year.

*This resonates with me. Now, that I come to Manila on a weekly basis--I have grown rather fond of it's decay. It's festering: soot covered buildings, motor exhausted streets and labyrinthine alleyways; is complimented with the people who populate it. Sweat browed-pedestrians and sunburnt street vendors tread all over its nook and crannies. They make it alive with an energy that doesn't fade when the sun goes down. And you're simply compelled to feel that in every corner there's always something interesting going on--that each pillar and pavement bears the weight or narratives waiting to be told.

I had the chance to hear stories about my late grandparents that night. As I've said in the internet before, If there's one thing God deprived me of, it would be my grandparents--both sides.

My sisters and I sat there beside the street listening to my relatives talk of Lolo Miguel and Lola Miriam my fathers parents... and there was just something about the way they talked of them fondly that spoke to me, made me miss them, made me regret not knowing them well.

I loved the fact that my lolo was more of a farmer than a village dentist in Lamitan, Basilan--a small island, almost the southernmost tip of the archipelago. How he was selfless with regards to serving the community (accepting anything if the patient didn't have money) and just having a love of tilling the soil--he planted pechay...

And with that I fashioned this connection with him. I remember how I took care of my small petchay patch when I was in public school, when I was young--and at some level I understood what he must've felt--why he loved to grow things.

Stories were the best gifts that I got this Christmas.