Reminiscing Childhood Christmas

I don't have much memory of my childhood Christmas. All I remember is that our Christmas tree is made from a real tree branch, dried up, sanded, and covered with cotton. We would then put little toys around the branches and the only thing that's not improvised was the star on top of it.

I spent my childhood in the province. We transferred in Manila when I was 8 years and 3 months old, and my childhood ended when I was separated from the place that I grew up from, and from the friends and cousins that I now consider my best childhood memory.

I also made quite a lot of friends in Manila. I played. But playing wasn't quite the same.

The minute our father brought us to our new house, the minute I set my foot on that muddy soil that made up the narrow catwalk towards the center of the slum where our supposed house was located, my childhood somehow ended. Imagine being in a big, humble house in the province, with a big backyard as playground and the nearby river as pool, and be transferred in a small, smelly house with neighbors just a wall apart.

It was a shock.

But I was a pretty adaptive child because soon enough, I was already feeling at home in that helluva place. I've spent so many Christmases there and eventhough I had already accepted the new place, I couldn't help but compare it to the Christmases of my childhood.

As a kid, I'd wake up so early in the morning and take a bath and had my mother dress me up in my Christmas attire. With some friends, we'd knock on doors of our neighbors within the half-kilometer radius that my mom would allow. We had to make it fast, though, cuz the mass at the chapel (and sometimes the town hall) would soon start.

Christmas in the province was a feast. Visitors would come and go in our house and my mom would entertain them the best she could. We would have suman and pancit and menudo and adobo and curry, etc.

My friends and I would compare handa, and I could remember that I neither win nor lose. The winner's always Ate Babeth who belongs to a well-off family. Rich enough that on Christmas mornings, we would knock on their door first because we knew they give more money than the rest of the neighborhood.

My favorite part was when my sister's classmates would arrive. She was in high school, then. And you know how high schools are. Her bestfriend, named Gina, would even tag along a neighbor who was my sister's suitor. His name was Francis. And I could vividly remember the time when he carried me and asked if I wanted him to be his kuya. He was tall, and handsome, with wispy, longish locks. Of course I said yes. At least I'd have a kuya who wants me to be his younger brother. But anyway, my sister agreed to be his girlfriend only after graduating from high school. And 2 months after graduation, we had to leave the province to live in Manila.

From what I know, they didn't break up but never had the chance to continue their relationship as well. According to my sister's bestfriend, Francis got married while ate's still in college, but chose to train in Manila to become a soldier, just to get away from his wife.

Francis was my sister's first boyfriend. First love. Now I realize that perhaps going to Manila might have given ate a big heartbreak at that time. A big one, perhaps just like what I felt when I realized I wouldn't be able to play with my childhood friends in our big backyard and the river nearby anymore.