Pink Lips and Veined Hands

Hardbound

 

Now that the boys are gone, and as I near my 13th birthday,  I am entitled to my own bedroom. 

My  first  thought  is to make my own mini-library with a lamp  so I can be in my own quiet world whenever I want.  But first, the hunt for  some  usable furniture to turn into a bookshelf.  

I spot an antique chest drawer  situated at the corner of the stairway.  It’s just always been there but by far,  the  least usable piece of furniture in the apartment.  

When I asked for it to be moved to my newly-assigned bedroom, Lola Mamang  muttered, “Alright, hija, you may have my antique chest drawer. It just needs a little varnish, not paint, and it will stand out among all other modern but  scrappy furniture.  Take care of it…  it has a huge sentimental value for me, I  used to write letters to your Lolo Papang  on its writing table when he was in the Navy.”

It was because of that writing tablet tucked away under its tabletop  that  I had been specially attracted to that antique chest piece.  It was made out of the  narra hardwood tree,  the Philippines ’national tree, and  is endemic only to Southeast Asia.

The chest had a couple of drawers,  a smaller one on the upper portion, and a second larger one near the bottom. Lola Mamang  had been using the small drawer as her medicine closet. The open table-top serve as her personal altar where the Holy Family is enshrined. Lola Mamang  would light a candle every time she prayed the daily novena, or her prayers to the Saints. (St. Jude on Thursdays, St. Francis on Tuesdays, The Immaculate Mother on Wednesdays, the Sacred Heart of Jesus on Fridays…)

Its dark reddish-deep brown color had been stained with liquefied wax and tainted with the age of time. But it was a welcome addition to my white and wood bedroom motif.  

Not only was I excited to move  into a new bedroom being assigned to me, a  privilege upon reaching puberty, but I was enthused with having my own writing table.  My very own, my very first.  (No more writing homework at the dining table with the rest of the brood).

I dashed out of my Lola Mamang ‘s bedroom, eager to move her stuff away from the  hand-me-down furniture I had really liked and had been curious about for most of my childhood life.

I quickly set it up in my new bedroom. In  my mind,  adorning  my new writing table  with an antique-style writing lampshade was taking shape.  

The writing tablet  hadn’t  been used in years.  In one quick  stroke,  I swung it to upright position, freeing it from a cradle of cobwebbed memories underneath.  I pulled a chair, found  its level a perfect match,  pulled the chair closer, grabbed a pen and paper, took a writing stance over the tablet, then I  felt it.  There and then, I knew I wanted to write.

Next, I emptied the upper smaller drawer, and wiped the interior clean with damp cloth. Then,  I tried pulling out the lower bigger drawer. But either it was too heavy for my thin hands, or it was locked.  Or both.  The keyhole tarnished with rust, and there was no sign of any handle nor knob to aid me get a grip of the drawer. 

Knowing for certain that  Lola Mamang wouldn’t have the key to that lock, I  whacked the keyhole with a screw driver, then  turned the furniture upside down and used the force of my legs to push the drawer out.

Voila! Hardbound books came bursting out of the drawer. Classics, novels, world atlas volumes, biographies, self-help books that were heavily marked, soiled and worn-out appear to have escaped the ravages of time. The stench of an old world was breathing new life into my newly founded personal library, I thought.

Quickly, I gathered the books one on top of the other, organising in my mind which of them would make it to the topmost shelf, and which would make it to my first Reading List in my now personal library.

As I stood up, with both arms in full grasp of the books, I lost my balance, and fell on my bed.  Over a dozen books were strewn across the pillows by the headboard. 

But there was one that hit the floor. About a couple of inches in thickness, in regular bond paper size. Red Plain Cover. Hardbound. Untitled. 

I picked it up, flipped it over, looking for its title. It intrigued me to realise it had none. I leafed through the pages, yellowish and empty.

Then more curiously, I brought myself to the beginning of the Red Book, and opened to its first pages.

It was handwritten.  A  list of birthdays. My Ninong Ramiro’s  birthday appeared first with his name beside it  RAMIRO .  And then mine.

Lola Mamang’s and Lolo Papang’s names and birthdays were on it too, and my aunties' names and birthdays as well. 

On the second page was a journal entry dated 1962.  The handwriting seemed convent-bred, the long bold strokes were ladylike, the writing tone raw and urgent. Its last lines read:

… Here is a man who could accept me for what I am, and regardless of my past… 

Now is my chance to be happy once again, 

the promise of a new  future in a faraway land, 

he offers but without my first-born….  

I cannot find it  in my heart to abandon my child to the care of Mamang…

God help me in this my dilemma…

The  ‘child,’   the poor child was 4 years old.

I closed the Red Book. I closed the bedroom door. I drew the curtains, also to a close. 

The chapter of my Childhood must have ended that night too.

For days, I spoke to no one.   

And in the quiet of my sanctuary, I began to understand the ways of the world. 

Rain splatters against the window and later finds its course down the drain.

But the water never sinks to the bottom of the earth. It nourishes the soil to make fertile memories  dissipate across the soul of the land.

By morning, the rain hadn’t stopped and the far horizon flushed a pale rainbow across the sky.

I wake up to the song of the birds.