Try to Remember the Kind of December and Wallow..wallow...wallow...wallow

I’m homesick. I want to go home for Christms. I want to go back to my Dad and my Mom and my Manang and my sisters.

I want to have one more Sunday lunch with the entire family sitting at the narra dining table.that my parents bought even before I was born.

I want one more morning when my Mom surprises my Dad on his December 24 birthday with his favorite breakfast of corned beef shaped into a heart on the plate.

I want my Dad to drop by my office again. This time I’m bringing him out to lunch.

I want one more ride in our old brown Izusu Gemini car with my Dad driving and my Mom beside him and my sisters and I singing carols at the back.

I want to nap on our old rattan sala set with the faded slip-covers that my Lola got tired of and handed down to us.

I want our 10-year-old white, dusty, plastic Christmas tree with the red poinsettia Christmas lights that my sister bought.

I want to go back to dressing up for Christmas eve and staying awake for Manang’s arroz caldo before we open our presents.

I want to go back to stressing-out looking for the perfect Christmas give for everyone and having it all worth it by seeing their faces light up as soon as they tear open the wrappers.

I want to open up all the cabinets and drawers to let all the good luck in on New Year’s eve just like my Mom said we should.

I want the familiarity and comfort of my Mom’s smell back – that mixture of perfume, lotion, powder and lipstick that is so closely attached to my memories of her.

I want to go home. I want things to be just like they were before.

Everyone is gone. The furniture has been given away. Nobody else remembers the old brown Izusu Gemini car.

I go on alone.

This is totally counter-productive behavior but what-the-fuck, you know?