Turning a decrepit house and lot into millions is not difficult, if my mother has anything to do with it. When I first saw the sprawling two story house on Champaca Street, Mintal three years ago, I complained, “No Mama, we can’t live in there!” Indeed the house was hideous. The auburn gutter hung lifelessly with the rivet holes apparent as my glasses; also, the once imposing terrace was painted with a fusion of jade and canary peat; and, the white-marble balustrade and adobe walls were covered with soot and grime. Inside, the 400 square foot floor plan wasn’t quite impressive. The crimson floor was covered with dog shit and mosquito infested puddles. The scent of wet and rotten wood nauseated me, and the enveloping dust triggered my rhinitis. The house was just like our life that time, dirty, hopeless, and just about ready to collapse after my father’s affair and my parents’ subsequent separation. But my mother was deaf to my complaints--- she was bent on making a new life and a home out of this dump they call Mendoza Apartment. She bought gallons of Zonrox and packets of Shine Master floor wax. She turned the floors from a field of dog manure into a gleaming artwork a prince can dance on. She restored the narra doors, countertops, and stairs into their old shining glory. She painted the walls lemon and cobalt blue---a far cry from the dark and depressing avocado green it had boasted before. It started with a room, then two, then all of the rooms; I didn’t even notice that the dump I had rejected has turned into the home I call now. Truly, this is my mother’s genius--the alchemy of the Mendoza Apartment. However, like the cracks on the adobe walls, and the scars on the narra countertops, there are still some things that my genius mother can’t restore---alone.
I thought everything was all right, but it wasn’t. Last year, on a rainy September evening, I was roused from sleep by the pounding of the rain. I heard the “tick-tack-tick-tack” noise in the kitchen and I was curious to find out what it was. The ceiling was stained with a translucent brown liquid, and on the floor were puddles of rain water. Our roof had a hole, and it was a very big hole, but I just ignored it. I had guessed that my mother would clean it up---as always. But I realize now that cleaning merely the mess is different from fixing the roof. The next day, my brother ran away. It was not some melodramatic, emotional, and teary absconding; in fact, we only noticed that our brother had gone when we were about to eat dinner. There was no “I hate you!” letter, “don’t bother to find me!” letter, or even, “bring back my father!” letter, my brother just quietly slipped away from our home, unnoticed, and neglected. My mother and sister thought that he had run away because he had failed in a Mathematics exam, and was afraid of the punishment, but I believed otherwise. It was about my father, and the fact that my brother felt that he was abandoned and alone with all these silly females surrounding him. We called 911 and asked for their help. We searched for him, and by midnight, when my mother and sister were frantically combing the Mintal market for him, he returned. Sweaty and hungry, he told me that he had gone to the church just a number of blocks away from our home, and prayed that my father would come back. No “pamalo” touched his butt, no hand slapped him, because we knew, that no matter how my mother mended our house and our family; no matter how happy I was with the way things were; and no matter how contented my sister was with staying silent, there was one person whom we had conveniently ignored. Nothing can heal the wound that my father’s abandonment inflicted upon him, and our home, but understanding. I realized then, how our home was perched precariously on a precipice, with just a gust of wind, it could fall, and crumble quickly away. Our home still needed a lot of fixing, starting with the hole in our roof, something that my mother cannot do alone.
Divina Amor J. Germina
