I can still recall the smell of my father’s workshop. It was a small and cluttered space situated on the second floor of our rented home. It is a very memorable area of my childhood for me, because it is the place of my earliest memory. I was four at the time, while my sister, Pamela, and cousin, Bea, were just one year old toddlers. I can still remember how little they were, how hilariously tiny they looked, and how they smelled like milk all the time. Most of the time, they suck on milk bottles while half asleep, but during the day, they get by with their pacifiers. My sister had two of them, a pink one and a blue one, and no one could take them away from her.
I am not entirely sure why I am writing this on my blog, but at this hour, I feel really nostalgic of the past. I always catch myself wondering why time seems to fly so fast now, when in the 90’s, one whole day was long enough to do a variety of activities. I could play text and pogs with my kid neighbors, I could play Crash Bandicoot and Tekken on the PS1, I could watch TV when Dragon ball or Pokemon is on, and I would still get bored because I would still have so much time in my hands.
My daily routine as a kid was simple. I wake up, I eat, I go out to play, I come back home to eat again or watch TV or play games, I go out again, and then I come home before the sun sets. It was understood that I should be home before it gets dark. I don’t remember any agreement on it between my mother and I, but no one wanted to play in the dark streets of Pasig. Of course, it wasn’t because it was unsafe or something. I guess it was because no one wanted to play in the dark, and everyone was tired after a long day of playing.
My baby sister and baby cousin were always at home. They were not allowed to go outside because they were not old enough, like me. I felt very superior. I was the alpha, and everything I did, they wanted to do as well. They were easily my minions, but I get in trouble with the adults whenever I posed as a bad example to the toddlers. I got hit with all kinds of household stuff including hangers, rolled up newspapers, and anything my mother would get a hand on. I would get scared shitless because it would hurt, and I would remember not to do it again. My sister would always see me get hit, and I don’t know what goes on in her head but I am pretty sure she understood what it meant and what it was for.
Today, Pamela and Bea are adults. They are not tiny anymore, I cannot laugh at how small they are anymore, and ultimately, they do not smell like milk anymore. They don’t want to do everything that I do anymore, because they know they can do things anytime they wanted to, even without me doing it first. They are adults. They were once stupid and cute little things, and now they have grown to be intellectual and ambitious women, ready to conquer the world. In a little over two decades, these toddlers are now capable of deciding on their own, building their future, and doing things no one ever thought possible when you look at them as toddlers, with their messy hair and mixed milk and saliva scent. As an alpha, I would call them nerds. But as a fellow woman, I would call them outstanding.
And I sit here, in front of my computer, writing about how I remember them in my mind, trying to preserve the memory of the toddler versions of them and locking it safe, because these photos do not justify the lost memories that I keep trying to remember. The memories I have left of them, of my childhood, are slowly fading away, and I am terrified. What was once my life, now just a moving and defocused picture in my head, slowing disappearing, slowly being taken from me, and soon will completely disappear as I perish.
But I am glad they existed. I am glad of the memories, and whether I remember something or not, I will continue to believe that amazing things happened in the 1990’s, and I believe that in another universe, far away from here, baby Pamela, baby Bea, and street kid Karla never grew up.
Karla Maye 