A Horrible Storyteller

A house built during the early 1990’s, it roofed three generations of Filipino-Chinese citizens living in the City of Cebu; a house pregnant with plenteous history encapsulating the vibrant lives of the Wong family.

A household in which jazzy flavors mingled with Filipino tongue and Chinese artistry; a rich tango of native Xiamen dushes littered on antique tree whose glass spun like the Earth around the Sun.

Vintage stories were recounted in Bisaya, the Cebu dialect, by my aunt as the burning incense cruised the air, weaving the story of my ancestors.

As I tighten the laces of my shoes, I envision the frail feet of my great-grandmother, whose feet were bound in pursuit of beauty.

Oftentimes, I visit the dust-collected antiques kept in the storage room. Quiet and colorful, with a smell reminding me of socks. History and love-dusted memories, I hate that it seems like mere clutter to me.

Porcelain fine China and household decor that I can’t seem to recall, yet stored to forget; no sense of memory at all. It’s a tearful encounter with those before me, laid to rest at the cemetery.

How I’d love to meet these old memories, which are now just pictures and film rolls collecting dust in a plastic box. Left in loving memory, in a room that smells of old socks.