THERE are quite a few things that do not change. These you discover after a long absence from home.
Once you enter the yard the aging dog is roused from its slumber. Its lone bark signals a family member, not a guest or stranger, is coming. The cat jumps from its sentry perch on a bamboo chair and meets you in welcome, the dog by its friendly bark and the cat by brushing his body on your trousers.
Pet animals respond to the care and affection of the family.
Father is not yet home, my brothers are engaged in the late afternoon basket ball game at the school yard.
Mother shuffles around in her arthritic feet. She is tending to the stove, smelling faintly of garlic Soon the scent of pork adobo and boiling rice meet the brothers and the family sit in a lively animated supper.
Mother's sunny disposition and loving heart and dad's devotion to his sons is felt like an evening breeze that always blew softly from the western meadow. The wind came through the east, bending bamboos that presaged the incoming storm.
The singular joy of coming home is rediscovery. The stream that runs at the back of the house has narrowed in the banks and struggle with silt comprising nature's detritus.
Mang Jose's fecund wife has given birth to their sixth children. The clan expect a litter of dogs soon. The bitch is on heat again.
There was a partial drought that year, our farm yielded a fair harvest.
A new water hand pump has been installed, drawing water has become rhythmic as the household prolong their sleep.
The milkboy arrives in time for breakfast. Last night's left over adobo and steaming rice and onion omelet consist of almusal. The pandesal vendor toots his arrival in a raggedy bike.
Lunch was a broiled mudfish, bought from a roving vendor and half-cooked okra and eggplants from the backyard. The midday quiet induces slumber disturbed by whistler birds on their way to dry meadows.
At the caimito treetops doves coo, and the voices of school children sang, banter, and laugh. It's recess.
One becomes a child again, a creature of wonderland. Adulthood are years away. The child's innocence is broken by curiosity. Pranks and petty mischief, not lies and intrigue, are the way to adventure.
You remember the town fiesta, the "karnibal" and the santacruzan. Take child is now a boy with steering strangeness of the loins. When was your last a confession?
The last day from the hometown vacation you try to save the memories of being home, of affection and understanding in the family, of the pretty maidens, and the joy and peace in familiar things. These will accompany us across the years.