Skip to main content

Mornings where I live on weekdays

Almost every morning where I live on weekdays, I wake up to the neighbor's children going to school. I never see them; I just hear them bidding their parents goodbye as they pass by my closed window. From their voices, I would guess that one child is in grade school, while the rest are either in high school or college.

The youngest would say, "I love you, mama! I love you, papa!" several times before leaving. The older ones -- I still don't know how many children there are; three or four, perhaps -- would say their shorter goodbyes (once, I heard what sounded like a teenage boy say, "We're going now, mama! I love you!").

It's a nice alarm clock, this daily chorus of goodbyes and I-love-yous. One day, though, I heard something better.

The children were saying their goodbyes, with the youngest delivering his drawn out I-love-yous. The older ones were already talking and laughing about other things when a strong male voice called out in a thick Filipino accent, "Goodbye, my little ones! Take care, my little ones!"

I'd never heard the parents' answers before.

My little ones. These are words few Filipino fathers would use to address their children. How lovely to hear it from the father next door.

Comments

  1. Sounds sweet indeed. Are they all going to the same school? Seems strange, but do they all have the same school schedule?

    ReplyDelete
  2. I've been wondering the same thing. :-)

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

The work for which all other work is but preparation

I've been thinking, off and on, of something I once read: The purpose of marriage is not happiness but holiness. Never having been a "good" Christian despite my many attempts, I couldn't understand this line of thinking. Having been raised Catholic, I understood "holiness" to have as one of its main ingredients suffering — and why even want to get married if to be successful at it means to suffer? But these words never left me, bobbing up every now and then from the flotsam and jetsam of my brain. Until, one day, it dawned on me what the statement meant for me. On that same day, I also realized that I do want the gift of marriage. In fact, that is my Christmas wish this year.  My view is not a biblical view, but I don't think it strays too far from it. To be holy is to be set apart from others, as God is, in his perfect goodness and righteousness, in his perfect love (yes, this is biblical; yes, I know I said I wasn't looking at it biblically).  The

Visita Iglesia

My mom and I went with my sister, her family, and the in-laws to their Visita Iglesia for the Holy Week. I'd never done this before, but I had such an interesting time, and I think I'd like to do this again next year. We didn't do the Stations of the Cross, though. We just prayed and lit candles. A lot of candles. Here's a list of the churches we visited. Recto The University Belt churches, all of which are within walking distance to each other. The path to all those churches were lined with vendors hawking all sorts of things, from food, like calamares (I'd never seen calamares being sold as street food before! Lucky U-Belt kids!), all-sorts-of-balls-and-the-like (chicken, squid, fish, kikiam , and kwek-kwek ), to bottled water and flavored beverages, to candles and religious paraphernalia. 1. The San Beda Church , which I loved for the gilt of gold on the statues and the ceiling, and because once a Bedan, always a Bedan, though I didn't go to San Beda

Dream: Disaster

Last night's dream. This is a long one. I was in a management class that suddenly became a cooking class. The teacher whipped up this Italian dish with pasta, meat and some mushrooms and vegetables. "Would anyone like to have this?" she asked us. Nobody replied. A bit miffed, she handed it to the student in front of her: me. The dish looked delicious, actually, so I stood up and went around the classroom to get everyone to try it. Some of my classmates feigned interest, and some didn't bother to hide their annoyance, but most got some of the food. The plate was soon empty, even for me, so I went back to my seat. The teacher, who'd been watching me serve her dish, asked, "Why do you have blood on the seat of your pants? Do you have your period?" Surprised, and suddenly anxious, I whispered, "I just finished my, um, girly thing, ma'am, but I'll go check. I might have just sat on something that looks like blood." I saw what looked like blo