Memoir

It has been a year since the parsonage has received its last general clean-up and surely that time would be immensely heavy, with the rooms being filled by thick layers of dust and grime wherein every step and stomp would form little dust clouds; the unused boxes made full by religious texts and pamphlets, which used to be intact and complete are now crinkled by the passing of time and wrinkled by the onslaught of heat and the occasional dripping water from the ceiling; cobwebs, in variety of shapes and sizes, veil each and every corner of the interior and even the spaces in between are seized with no reservation; and the scent of deadwood stemming from ruined books, boxes, and the termite-infested walls fill the entirety of the once pleasant home.

It is a shame, really, after we brought a unit in a suburb, and for a year, furnished it with fancy furniture and decorations, my parents then decided that instead of living in the parsonage, we should occupy the unit so that all their investments would not go unused and wasted. During that time initially, I used to stay at the parsonage each time I return from Davao; and not long after (a month or so), I grew tired of keeping the place clean by myself and went on spending my every weekend in the suburb. I liked the parsonage for where’s it at, in the center of the city itself, in the main commercial zone where sari-sari stores, retail warehouses, bakeshops, and the trade center are just within walking distance; and it’s a relief that a new pastoral intern will be occupying the 2-storey parsonage for the time being; and because of that I committed myself to do some heavy clean-up.

The living room was a mess; the seats were full of different kinds of papers; picture displays of my mother and father were lined up atop the bookshelf while religious books and photo albums were sorted into the racks; the stack of boxes containing Sunday school textbooks and lessons were disarrayed, and tools, such as the cutter by the study and the laser printer beside it, remained uncovered ever since; all of which are blackened with grime and are in dire need of rearranging and dusting, and perhaps some wet wiping for the non-paper. The classic window panes of glass were brimmed with dirt and the curtains that was once so blue have lost their radiance. So I headed to the kitchen and took a cleaning rag from the cabinet and the tabo from atop the water drum; and dipped it in so I could have some water to soak the rag into, then walked back to the living room and lifted the curtain rod, pulled the dirty curtains out and rediscovered a scenery of which I am very familiar with: the Church and the courtyard, which used to be completely shaded by the Talisay tree that now has been cut down and been replaced by the tarpaulin tent. And by that very moment, as if by divine call, could I remember with vivid clarity; the time I used to refrain from attending church service, back when I was in High School; and as fresh as how I seem to recall it, I could feel the hatred, the disdain I felt as a kid growing in age, but I could not remember why exactly, and how? As I stared out the screen of the window, the wind rose up along no sound of leaves shuffling and sprinkled the dust out the glass panes, and reminded me of the place where I currently stood, far away from the past I have invoked.

But not even by a slightest margin could I compare the progress I have made to how filthy the living room originally was, and so I decided to do first the bedroom by the stairs where the intern is intended to be placed. The parsonage is on the second floor of the Church wing, and on its ground floor is a room so large and spacious that it’s used for multiple purposes and occasions. The whole building is multi-functional so to speak, explaining how its structure is oddly built. The bedroom by the staircase is further elevated than the rest of the rooms, and within that bedroom is a portion of its floor elevated even more, making the windows inside provide a slight overhead view of the Lapu-lapu street.

I started first on clearing the underside of the wooden bed; and so I held the edges of its side and lifted it to reveal the scattered pile of junk technology and bags full of paper; and went on to check the papers to see if they were bound to be thrown away, and later realized they were mine: my old elementary examination papers, back when I was unbelievably diligent. I, with the passionate fervor to study all the time and hence, received those almost perfect marks, wanted to impress my parents, to prove to them that I could be like my brother. I could see the innocent, eager me, sitting and studying by the bed so furiously while hoping for God’s great consideration, as I have strongly believed back then, in my early youth that God confer prosperity to those who intend to do good. I would attend Church without ever getting late, and I would sit beside my parents at the front of the pulpit itself; but it was all in the past. I threw all the papers on a sack and yet I felt no sigh of regret; was it because that I have changed so much? So far from what I was told to be, thought to be, or expected to be? And I asked to myself: just where did it go wrong?

After throwing all the throwaways and other worthless scraps and carrying all the remaining unusable or broken devices and the cables along them outside, to the living room, I set my eyes toward the shelf where my late grandma’s novels were lined up and realized there are notebooks and pads mixed up with the latter. I pulled out all those that are out of place, and opened them one by one; but I, who has forgotten the escapist that I was, was met by a wave of nostalgia; by worlds, by magic, by fantasy; by the absurd characters, edgy backstories, magic systems that I’ve written when I reached high school; by how I would lay down the floor, as I listened to the Warcraft 3 soundtrack, mimicking the goofy voices of dwarven characters, reimagining the geography of a world of magic and adventure, and scribed all these, everything that I could imagine into a series of used notebooks and long sheets of paper; and how proud I was for creating those. I opened another drawing pad, and carressed the graphite texture with a thumb; and it occurred to me that time when my uncle, who is an artist, visited when I was in my third year of high school. My mother showed them that exact pad and told them how they were depictions of demons, and to prove her point, pointed at my humanoid drawing of the Tauren, my eerie sketch of the Treant, and my entire art of Nagas and the Underworld denizens, all of which I admit to be inspired by videogames, which my mother also accuse as instruments of the devil. And to add, she never did realize that a majority of my vocabulary came from playing videogames. As speechless as my uncle was, I was wrong to expect that they would praise me; and looking back, I should have kept the drawing for myself and never showed it to anybody else. And I thought to do the same, and decided to carry them all back to my room, stuffed them all into the cabinet, and placing them underneath folded clothes.

I went back to resume cleaning, and found, once again, a memorial of the past. I dug my hands into the cellophane bag and arose with slings in both hands, flailing through my fingers were the cards and IDs reading the names: JORAM and JEREM scribbled with black permanent markers. They were from different youth camps that we (with my brothers) attended every summer back when both my brother Joram and I were in high school, and both of us probably had different perceptual experience throughout all these Church-related events because for me, the idea of mixing in with those crowds were unbearable. The youth that I knew back then, that I thought to have Christian hearts, to have pursued the path of Christ were slanderous, quick to ridicule, and just there, attending, to find other “Christian” youth to choose from and flirt on; but I did not mean judge all of them to be like that, it's just that most of the people I see in camps acted like those I've mentioned; maybe those kind of people were just easy to notice or just capable of easily overshadowing those who are genuinely kind and good-natured. But even after many years that have gone by, I could still feel this sense of disgust; and I could recall the time when the councilors conduct activities that everyone is required to join in, forcing companionship with other campers; when I would retract to my snobbishness and attempt on hiding away, refraining from all invites of roaming councilors to join and play with the others. I dug deeper into the pile and pulled out medals, which a large portion of the pile belonging to my brother and the rest belonging to me, which were just a handful of four; and remembered, in clarity, the times I’ve been compared to my brother; the times when members of the Church ask how different was I compared to my brother and how disappointed their gazes were when they learned that I attended a public school, while my brother, by God's grace, the genius son of a pastor, went to a prestigious high school in Mintal further into Davao. All these experiences resulted to me bearing little to no benevolence towards them, only resentment. As I grew up, I learned to deal with people so quick on judging, on ridiculing, on imposing- with hypocrites who harm others in whatever manner.

But by a sudden click, clank, and creak of the swiveling door, my attention flew towards the direction of the door, aware that someone has entered the house. A series of smacks and thuds went up on the flight of stairs, and by judging by the rate and heaviness of the steps, I was sure that it was my mother’s; and as strategic protocol, in one swooping action, I stooped down, grabbed the pile of name tags and medals with my left hand and the cleaning rag with the right, and paced one step nearer to the door by where I placed the water-filled tabo, and hurled both the pile and the rag; with the pile out the door where my advancing mom could see it fly out, and with the rag into the container; then proceeded to lean down to reach and squeeze out the water from the soaked rag and went to the nearest window to wipe the grime off the pane. My mother stood by the door, unfazed, as if she expected all of it, and said gently, ‘Erem, it’s near worship service, dress up now and attend.’ And I looked out the window and saw the orange sky, and answered.

Voices rang out from the Church in angelic medley, echoing and piercing through the walls that separate me from the holy service of God. As I wiped all the panes of the room, I looked on the rims of the Church, and felt a familiar sense of guilt; but since then, every time I see that scenery, I remember the Talisay tree which I was so fond of, and realize each time that it was the people of the church who cut it down.

Year: 4th year Section: AB Lit3

Creative Writing - Creative Non-Fiction