Ask the person beside you, “Do you have a relative abroad?” You get a nod, or “Of course!,” or “Yup,” or a show of fingers. At no time in our history has the family been more dispersed and scattered, physically. Hardly do families have a gathering with complete attendance anymore.
My very small family (a husband, three sons, and a daughter-in-law), has not been together for three years. The culprit in this dispersal is not just the call of overseas. It’s having individual lives, chasing individual dreams.
I “lost” my children before they could officially leave home.
Second son went to medical school and it was foolish to cling to home which was an hour drive (barring traffic) to his school in Dasmarinas, about 40 kilometers away.
Youngest son is now in law school and the story repeats itself—he stays in a condo close to Rockwell and comes home only on weekends.
Eldest son is a techie down to his teeniest bone, works on weekdays, and when he’s home he talks to his three computers.
This situation is replicated in many homes. The photos below show reunions that never happened; just a family gathered, and scattered.
It stands to reason, then, that the one, extremely rare occasion when my family was together moons ago, in one space, I encrypted it in my hard disc; I wrote about it. (If you think do nothing but write, well, kinda’.) To all sons, daughters, fathers, and mothers out there who can't attend a family reunion for whatever reason, you may want to read this with me.
A Circle of Dry
It was almost midnight, it was raining, it was a long way to home, it was slippery on the highway, it was the day the family was in one space in months, it was the worst time to have a car breakdown. Bang!
"We just had a flat tire!" I screamed.
"Naaaah," my husband said, like a tic—when I am in the throes of panic.
Then the car wobbled. The unflappable father of my equally unflappable three sons (unmoved from their sleepy slouches), managed to park the car close to the island.
Kahlil Gibran said, "Our children are not our children." I add, "...after the age of puberty." Before then, they are our children. They want to go wherever we go, eat whatever we want them to eat, do whichever we want them to do.
Unfortunately for me, my three boys, who each have contrasting interests and schedules, are all beyond the age of unreason. So this drizzly night was special. And now a flat tire to ruin it...
Putting it mildly, we were in great peril. My husband Tony was recovering from a quadruple bypass surgery; first son never, ever, changed a tire; middle son was suffering from a shoulder injury; last son was like first son in inexperience. And all of the above had not read the Revo's (a week-old purchase with no EWD) manual; no one knew where the jack was or how to extricate the spare tire from its hiding place.And me? "We could be sideswiped!"
"Call Jimmy Dumlao and request for a highway patrol," Tony tried to distract me.
Jimmy is a friend who heads the Philippines Toll Regulatory Board. Help from Jimmy's traffic men was not forthcoming. Vehicles, with eerie apathetic sounds, sped past us. The rain persisted. My chin shivered from the cold and fright. And right on the hazardous highway, my face was soaked from looking up, from praying for grace.
But opening my eyes, I was treated to images more stunning than the photos of man landing on the moon. Stunning images frozen by my heart's camera in snapshots.
A father's umbrella providing sons (huddled over manual) a circle of dry. Click.
Three pairs of scruffy shoes sloshing through mud in cadence. Click. Three pairs of soiled hands gripping metals and latches in unison. Click. Three pairs of wet arms tensing over nuts and bolts in sequence. Click. Three pairs of eyes focused on rubber and wrench. Click. Three boys alternately conferring with each other, pushing and pulling, and lying on wet pavement together. Click. Click. Click.
I splurged on rolls upon rolls of imaginary film. How often does a mother get a chance to witness a bicker-less event? Not often. Sometimes never.
Common household dialogue: From three sons, "I did it yesterday, it's kuya's (older brother) turn today." "Why does it always have to be me?" "I can't mom, I have homework to do."
From their father, "I'll do it for you. I have no homework, I have no kuya, and I have no choice."
The spare tire now almost in place, Jimmy's men arrived in a patrol car with pulsing lights and piercing siren. They watched my now bedraggled sons finish the job.
My cell phone rang. It was Jimmy. "Are my men there yet?"
"Yes, thank you."
"Were they any help?"
"Yes, thank you again." I was grateful they came late. I was grateful they left us alone.God's grace neither comes late nor leaves us alone. Not even on a highway on a rainy night when our car breaks down. “You turned my wailing into dancing; you removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy.” Psalm 30:11.
A Circle of Dry
It was almost midnight, it was raining, it was a long way to home, it was slippery on the highway, it was the day the family was in one space in months, it was the worst time to have a car breakdown. Bang!
"We just had a flat tire!" I screamed.
"Naaaah," my husband said, like a tic—when I am in the throes of panic.
Then the car wobbled. The unflappable father of my equally unflappable three sons (unmoved from their sleepy slouches), managed to park the car close to the island.
Kahlil Gibran said, "Our children are not our children." I add, "...after the age of puberty." Before then, they are our children. They want to go wherever we go, eat whatever we want them to eat, do whichever we want them to do.
Unfortunately for me, my three boys, who each have contrasting interests and schedules, are all beyond the age of unreason. So this drizzly night was special. And now a flat tire to ruin it...
Putting it mildly, we were in great peril. My husband Tony was recovering from a quadruple bypass surgery; first son never, ever, changed a tire; middle son was suffering from a shoulder injury; last son was like first son in inexperience. And all of the above had not read the Revo's (a week-old purchase with no EWD) manual; no one knew where the jack was or how to extricate the spare tire from its hiding place.And me? "We could be sideswiped!"
"Call Jimmy Dumlao and request for a highway patrol," Tony tried to distract me.
Jimmy is a friend who heads the Philippines Toll Regulatory Board. Help from Jimmy's traffic men was not forthcoming. Vehicles, with eerie apathetic sounds, sped past us. The rain persisted. My chin shivered from the cold and fright. And right on the hazardous highway, my face was soaked from looking up, from praying for grace.
But opening my eyes, I was treated to images more stunning than the photos of man landing on the moon. Stunning images frozen by my heart's camera in snapshots.
A father's umbrella providing sons (huddled over manual) a circle of dry. Click.
Three pairs of scruffy shoes sloshing through mud in cadence. Click. Three pairs of soiled hands gripping metals and latches in unison. Click. Three pairs of wet arms tensing over nuts and bolts in sequence. Click. Three pairs of eyes focused on rubber and wrench. Click. Three boys alternately conferring with each other, pushing and pulling, and lying on wet pavement together. Click. Click. Click.
I splurged on rolls upon rolls of imaginary film. How often does a mother get a chance to witness a bicker-less event? Not often. Sometimes never.
Common household dialogue: From three sons, "I did it yesterday, it's kuya's (older brother) turn today." "Why does it always have to be me?" "I can't mom, I have homework to do."
From their father, "I'll do it for you. I have no homework, I have no kuya, and I have no choice."
The spare tire now almost in place, Jimmy's men arrived in a patrol car with pulsing lights and piercing siren. They watched my now bedraggled sons finish the job.
My cell phone rang. It was Jimmy. "Are my men there yet?"
"Yes, thank you."
"Were they any help?"
"Yes, thank you again." I was grateful they came late. I was grateful they left us alone.God's grace neither comes late nor leaves us alone. Not even on a highway on a rainy night when our car breaks down. “You turned my wailing into dancing; you removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy.” Psalm 30:11.
2 comments:
This made me miss my family (who's in the province).
And the picture (the one with the tarsier in it)? It made me wanna take the next flight to Bohol. Hahaha. :)
This makes me feel sad for the days in the future when my children will leave me! :,(
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