The House On The Plaza

My Lola Ene standing on her porch, looking out at the plaza. (2017)

Memories of my Lola Ene send me back to the house on the plaza.

Lola Ene was neighbors with God, a sea of pavement and kalachuchi trees separating her from the church across the street. A chorus of church bells and rooster cries woke me up before dawn. My Lola Ene always made me breakfast: a fried egg, rice, pandesal and instant coffee. If I wasn't ready to eat, she always covered the rice with a saucer on top to protect it and keep it warm.

During the 24 years that I have been alive, I have only visited the Philippines three times. And every single time we went home, we always stayed with her. 

When I was a little kid, my dad would tell stories about his time living in the house. It was the nexus of his childhood. All of the cousins grew up there, he told me. Three floors had just enough room to squeeze multiple branches of the family. The staircase in the living room leads up to an altar, the perfect stage for at-home prayer services. And there's a big wraparound porch that hugs the house. Generally, the porch serves a front row seat for people watching, but when there's a party, it's crowded with people lining up for food like lechon or pancit. On balmy nights, the sliding doors and jalousie windows are open to let fresh air carry out peals of laughter and song. 

Inevitably, time took its bittersweet course. Everyone grew up and moved away. Soon enough, the house on the plaza was a bit quieter, more hollow. Lola Ene was the last woman standing, keeping the hearth alive.

But even when we couldn't be together, my Lola Ene had ways of closing the distance between us.
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The first time I stepped foot in the house, I saw my brother and I taking up space on every shelf. There were pictures of us at all ages, from chubby babies to awkward teenagers. 

I remember when we celebrated my dad's 60th birthday at the house for the first time in years. We had live music prepared. Before the guests arrived, the musicians were moving a cabinet to make room for their equipment. 

Naturally, my Lola Ene was overseeing the progress. Hinay-hinay, she said. Slowly, slowly. They had to be careful, my Lola Inday said because pictures of her apo, grandchildren, were on top.

My Lola Ene holding newborn me visiting me in the states.

That's what I loved the most about my Lola Ene. She wasn't shy about loving us. Because of our language barrier, more times than not, that's all she could say. I love you. I miss you. I'm proud of you. And honestly, that was more than enough. 

As I write this, I realize how little I know of her. Everything I've heard has come from other people. Every time I received a letter from her, all scrawled in English, my dad would remind me, your Lola Ene is very smart. She would travel to different provinces to teach, he said.

I was also surprised to learn that my lola had a bit of a rebellious side when she was younger. According to my mom, she was stubborn and independent. But she was also incredibly kind and sweet. She was your best friend's mom, the neighborhood tita, your childhood dance teacher, a loving older sister, and a true confidante. 

So, when she had passed, it felt like a fire had been snuffed out. 

Generations of family and friends have grown up in that house or, at least, crossed its threshold. I don't know when I will get the chance to visit the house on the plaza, but it won't be the same — that much I do know. 

She left a little too soon, but I rest easy knowing that she is at peace now, with no more aches or pains to speak of. I am eternally grateful that she had lived such a long and good life because of how much she was loved by us and by all that had the privilege of knowing her.

Being thousands of miles away is never easy, but home base was and will always be with Lola Ene.