The years are shorter when we’re older.

So I heard from a birthday celebrator today who’s a friend of my sister’s. Her husband was the Elvis fan. Both are Filipinos. But their kids are Dutch or at least raised as such by the environment they were born in.

Now I remember my parents back in Manila. I hope they’ve had a good life, and still do, more so now. I know life has not always been good to them, but I hope they had and are having a blast living it.

My mum is turning 60 in two months, my dad 67 in seven. Ten years ago, my mum was 50, my dad 57. I was 18, falling in love for the first time, cramming my homeworks away, figuring out where I was headed in life. 

I don’t recall my parents being in their 40s, or at least maybe I was not aware. That idea makes my eyebrows meet to cause a confused look on my face I can feel it, trying to search my long-term memory for clues on where I was, what I was preoccupying myself with, that I likely failed to notice the youth of my parents back then. A slight guilt beckons.

But I shove the past aside, or more succinctly, I refuse to remember our life of long ago, lest memories of ill family scenes come crawling back. I just want to forget, as I have long learned from it and keep moving on as I, and we, are doing now. It’s not a perfect family. I doubt such a thing exists. But we live a good life now. Each of us. If there are remnants of the dark years so-to-speak, we keep them locked in, consciously and proactively. We thank God and the universe for hoisting us to where we are now.

I overheard the birthday celebrator sharing with my sister that, when her younger child moved out of the house, she was more emotional than when her older one did. She admitted it was probably because he was the bunso (youngest).

Walking home tonight, with my sister, her husband, and the baby lagging a bit behind me (I almost always walk faster than anyone), I wondered if I was a delight as well to my parents, me being the fifth, hence the baby in the family.

Was I extra special to my parents?

Did I cause them more happiness, or more pain, or more pride? Or more of those ache-suffixed feelings: heartache, headache, stomachache, even wallet-ache?

Did I give them a distinguished type of joy?

Did I cause them more sleepless nights than any of my four sisters did?

How many times did I cause them teary eyes?

Did my innocence as a child suffice?

Was my laughter enough to make them smile? Or did my smartassness as an adult irk them?

Did I listen enough to their spoken and action-speaks-louder-than-words life lessons?

Did they really give me more than they’ve ever given anyone?

Am I living my life well enough to prove I’m worth their sacrifice?

years are faster

The years seem to go faster as we grow older…

 

*This is part of a 68-Day Travel Diary called Reflections of a Nearly Thirty. Read the full Reflections Series here.

How about you?

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

About hellopenville

Writing is my one true north. (The other is eating spaghetti. I make the best pastas in the whole world I swear!) I have been writing since age 10. I remember being in another school a lot because of Campus Journalism contests. I was a grade-school copyreader, headline-writer, and feature writer, who emerged to be a college editorial writer and eventually a TV news writer. However, I have always been an insecure artist. These constant condescending thoughts always stopped me from creating: “No one would read this.” “This has been written before and therefore no one would read this.” “This is not interesting enough and therefore no one would read this.” “This is not relevant, or factual, or trendy enough and therefore no one would read this.” But I learned to risk to write even if no one reads it, than not to have written anything at all. To resist writing is to resist truth itself, to betray that which comes freely to you when you do not allow it to be manifested through you. I didn’t think writing was serious work. But every time I thought about writing, it would make me nervous. It would rattle me and frighten me. I would shake the ground under me. Aren’t dreams like that too? Read more at penville.net.

Category

Europe, Holland, Travel Reflections Series (3 months in Europe)

Tags

, , , , , , , , ,