Visiting an Old Friend

It was the week before Christmas. Outside, the night air was still and quiet as the winter chill made its presence known. Amid the hustle and bustle of Christmas shopping, I took time out to visit an old family friend. It had been months since I last visited and I wondered how she was doing.

We met nearly three decades ago, two years after our family immigrated to America. It was she who provided our family with shelter, warmth and security. Ever-faithful and loyal, she became a significant part of our lives throughout the years. She laid the foundation for our family’s new beginnings, enabling us to realize the American dream. Her unassuming presence was there during times of trial and tribulation, joy and triumph. Our dear friend was there to help celebrate each new milestone from graduations, to weddings, to the birth of each grandchild. Like a true friend, she had an open-door policy. We could stop by unannounced and be greeted with a warm welcome. We knew her routine well. We knew mundane details such as where her linens were stored or what items were stocked in her pantry. Hers was a place of refuge where familiarity breeds comfort. It was a home away from home.

Unfortunately, circumstances beyond our control forced us to part ways. She will always be our dear friend.

Visiting an Old Friend

Since that day, I have driven by our old house, that dear family friend, several times more. Save for a small wreath on the front door and a small sign posted on the fence, the house almost seems vacant. What a contrast to the days when this was home to our family. Back then, this house was bustling with life inside and out. On any given day, there were several cars parked outside, people coming and going, children running in and out, and a little mutt named Checkers (a.k.a. Prosty) wreaking havoc in the back lawn.

Parked across the street, I gazed at the big tree in front of the house. I recalled how my mother planted this tree as a sapling more than two decades ago. Upon my arrival, its leaves rustled as if to rejoice at the sight of a familiar face. It has been several years since I have been in this house, and many changes have taken place, but its erstwhile glory remains vivid in my memory. My thoughts meandered down memory lane. I thought about the thousands of times I drove up and down this very road, and the thousands of times I walked through the front door into a place that truly felt like home. I marveled at my mother’s uncanny ability to prepare a tasty snack or delectable dish on short notice whenever we visited unexpectedly. Strolling down memory lane, I could partake once more in countless meals our family shared together. I could hear the happy chatter of people during the many parties, family gatherings, and church group meetings that took place inside those walls. Once again, I could walk on the red-orange carpeting (a throw-back to the ‘70s, no doubt) that covered the floor until it was replaced with wood flooring years later. I remembered the small kitchen fire that scorched the cupboards above the stove, and the tireless work my mother and brother invested in resurfacing the cabinets. In my mind’s eye, I spied the collection of children’s bikes parked along the side of the house, and the ensuing bike races across the back patio, leaving tire skid marks in its wake. I could hear the grandchildren screaming and laughing as they raced around the house, inside and out, playing tag or hide-and-seek. I remembered the inflatable pool that Lolo set up in the backyard on hot summer days for his grandchildren to enjoy. I remembered staying up late, stooped over the dining table, cramming for a final exam. I remembered late nights curled up on the couch watching a movie with my brothers and sisters, and leisurely afternoons gathered ‘round the kitchen table savoring our favorite Filipino snacks.

Soon, I realized it was time to go. As I started the engine, I envisioned my father standing on the driveway on a warm summer night, donning a camiseta (undershirt) and an old sturdy pair of short pants. As was his custom, he came outside to see me off. As I slowly back out of the driveway, he starts waving both arms simultaneously like an air traffic controller, guiding me safely onto oncoming traffic. Until finally, he signals to let me know that the coast is clear, and I could safely enter Nieman Blvd to head on home. I open the window to yell goodbye as I drive away. As I often did, I looked in the rear view mirror only to see his silhouette surrounded by a haze of yellow street lights. Farther away, I could still see him waving until the road bends and we are both out of sight.

This house is special because it represents both our roots and our wings. It was 28 years ago when we put down new roots in San Jose right in this very home. Then, one by one, we sprouted wings and took flight to begin lives of our own. But no matter where our journey leads us, we will always have the memories of life in the Nieman house. As everyone knows, home is where the heart is. This house will always a have a home in our hearts.