a home, within a home

“You were here since you were only 2 weeks old, you know.” You said, slowly, as I try to gather fragments from my scattered childhood.

All of it still sits the same, every inch of this tiny house, I think I remember. My earliest memories stand as I opened the window when I was in kindergarten. I love the fried rice you made, it’s different from my household.

You see, sleeping in your house on weekends seemed like a luxury for my tiny self. I was asleep by the sounds of your TV until my father picked me up. I pretended to sleep and watched the stars move as I went back to my home.

It was quiet.

But I don’t remember much about how much they hated me for being me. Don’t get me wrong, I accept it now that I can’t be as beautiful as most girls, and it’s impossible to be as graceful as my sister. Thank you for raging for me, back then, though I remember nothing — but still, your anger took sides, didn’t it?

I still think all of you are mistaken me for being strong. Always, the smart one, you’d say, though not pretty, she’s smart. But what does it mean? And what do you think it makes me feel?
You mistook me for being able to carry this weight, didn’t you?

Because I grow up and I give back nothing. It took a village to raise a useless being like me.

But it’s not true. You need so little and you don’t care about the trophies I brought back home. Just come here, is that all? Just come here and show me that you still care.

So you’re studying in college now? When will you graduate? What will you do by then?

I am sorry I am not growing up to be special, that maybe all those sweats mean nothing to me now. I am sorry that I can’t be exceptional, as my lights dim down and you all know it’s dying, bet you know too I am half alive by then.

I am sorry because I let many things kill me.

I hate when they say my name with pride like I do stuff for them — when all I am doing is messing around and nothing more. I know you are proud of me for making it this far. Who would’ve thought, though?

It’s not true for me, and I am not proud of myself.

Because I know, and I witness it in every inch, the way I let myself down over and over again, the way I fail to just try, the way I feel the fear all over my spine by imagining the worst that could happen. And if the worst did happen, will I be able to forgive myself for being this weak and dependent? I am not so sure. God, why do I hate myself this much?

But the hope is still here, right? I sometimes see him on the road, doing the same thing for maybe more than twenty years. Though I know he’s not as strong as he used to be, and he’s so tired, by you, by me, by all of us. He’d still trying to keep up.

The stories pass on. So pass me on.

I always wonder why should we exist at all. Most of our existence left no footprints to be passed to the next generations, small people like us only depend on the living to remember us. That way, we can exist one moment longer.

I was here since I was only fourteen days old, and I asked you lots of questions until you grew tired, I threw tantrums, I slammed the door, I cried, I told you I was hungry, I got mad that you loved my sister more — though it didn’t change the fact, I forgot many things, you remember everything.

It’s funny how we need so little, to begin with.

But as I realize it now, I know I might mess things up and grow like a dimmed candle, and maybe there’s no other way to be. But something that makes my life quite special is you, and the many homes I grow up in, where I learned to grasp a dream like the air on the ceiling. Even though all I can do is write it down in the language you don’t understand, in the corner of the internet you’ll never find, I hope you know how grateful I am for making you a home.