the summer guide to solitude
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self-help
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Your family is itching to get to the beach. But you're not. You would like some quiet. Some time to sort things out. A relief from the world. And to sleep all day.
They are all raring to run on sand and dive into salty sea water. But you're not. So you embark on a plan to get rid of them all.
Phase One: Feign Interest
On the couch, both your old maid Aunts giggle like high school girls: they plan to “make sulit” the sunblock lotion they bought months ago. Try to smile. They think you're just as excited as they are. Your mother has her grocery notebook out: “What to bring, what to buy, who to leave out, what went wrong the last time we went out,” she mumbles out the categories.
Your right wrist twitches. It remembers the dikya that stuck to it last summer. Your pesky grade school cousins Mark and Connie had run away from you, their assigned yaya. They went into the water with their lunch unfinished and without their salbabida. In pursuit, you tripped on the sand castle that took you hours to smoothen into form. Wading into shallow water, something clung to your wrist.
Your Aunt, the younger one, eyes you suspiciously. “Naku, don't bring up the dikya thing again,” she says. Smiling, you quickly swing your head from side to side and change the subject: “We should put on the sunblock even before we hit the beach, you know. Sunburn is a real...” and you let that trail off. Your Aunts nod in unison, overlooking the fact that you are rubbing your right wrist. Your body and mind remembers your traumatic summer.
Meanwhile, your mother is squinting hard at her notebook, as though it was one of the inventory spreadsheets she took home from work. She assigns yayas to kid clusters, bracketing with her pen who is under whose care, who will account for whom, who will not have fun.
Your father hollers from the kitchen: so-and-so have been notified, they would bring the vans, the same ones you used last year, in front of the house the morning after tomorrow. He yells further that you ladies should travel light, for once. At that aside, your Mother and Aunts team up against your Father. A hollering match ensues.
Everyone seems to remember everything necessary—the kids, the things to bring, the food supply, the transportation arrangements, the contingency funds. You remember your sunburned back, the dehydration and frustration of hunting down your cousins, the fact that no matter how many goggles you bring, everyone will borrow them, leaving you squinting under the water.
Besides, you're afraid of sharks. But you don't tell them that.
Phase Two: Stage Your Play
On the wake-up-and-go morning, when everyone is saying “Tara na, tara na” when the hired vans are honking outside the front gate, show them why you were president of your high school's actors' guild. Your duffel bag—which you told them you had meticulously packed the night before—falls downstairs, ahead of you, as you hold on the rails, one hand on your stomach, your whole being in a grimace: “I don't feel so good. Maybe something I ate,” you say in a painful whisper.
Your Father and your uncles have already stuffed everything into the vans, including your aunts. You can hear eight different kiddie voices shouting just outside the window: alisnatayoalisnatayoalisnatayobilisbilisbilis!
Your mother wavers between worry and excitement. “It's ok, go on without me,” you tell her. Your mother sighs, and makes last minute yaya reassignments on her notebook.
“Pambihira,” your Father says, from the open door. “Ngayon pa.”
Your Mother quickly kisses your forehead and rushes out the door, past your Father, who eyes you with slits. “Call my cell if anything happens,” he says firmly and then walks out.
“I'll be fine,” you say a little louder, waving to them and smiling as they board the vans. As you hear engine sounds fading away, you straighten your posture.
They're all finally gone. A piece of summer all to yourself. You feel deliciously alone.
Phase Three: Enjoy the Peace
Something in the house, something now missing, has suddenly made you feel at home: your family. You love them, of course, and more so from a distance. In time, you say out loud, you will miss them.
Bending down to pick up your duffel bag, you remember that you don't have to. There's no one else in the house. No one will nag. Your back itches. But you suddenly realize you can scratch or not scratch as you so choose.
You savor the moment.
Unseen birds are chirping. Sunlight softened by the window shines on the coffee table. You decide that the first priority is food. You walk straight into the kitchen, destined for the refrigerator. You pick up the remote control on the way.
You wake up on the couch near the kitchen. You have left the TV on. Your coffee has gotten cold. The clock above the refrigerator says noon.
Still in a drifting Saturday morning mood, you assess at leisure what you may want to do, or not do, on this fine day. But then your nose itches. Somebody has to scratch it. You look at the remote on your right hand and the half-eaten pandesal on your left, and think of which to let go, so you can attend to that itch.
Although you're alone at home, you notice, you still have tough decisions to make.
They are all raring to run on sand and dive into salty sea water. But you're not. So you embark on a plan to get rid of them all.
Phase One: Feign Interest
On the couch, both your old maid Aunts giggle like high school girls: they plan to “make sulit” the sunblock lotion they bought months ago. Try to smile. They think you're just as excited as they are. Your mother has her grocery notebook out: “What to bring, what to buy, who to leave out, what went wrong the last time we went out,” she mumbles out the categories.
Your right wrist twitches. It remembers the dikya that stuck to it last summer. Your pesky grade school cousins Mark and Connie had run away from you, their assigned yaya. They went into the water with their lunch unfinished and without their salbabida. In pursuit, you tripped on the sand castle that took you hours to smoothen into form. Wading into shallow water, something clung to your wrist.
Your Aunt, the younger one, eyes you suspiciously. “Naku, don't bring up the dikya thing again,” she says. Smiling, you quickly swing your head from side to side and change the subject: “We should put on the sunblock even before we hit the beach, you know. Sunburn is a real...” and you let that trail off. Your Aunts nod in unison, overlooking the fact that you are rubbing your right wrist. Your body and mind remembers your traumatic summer.
Meanwhile, your mother is squinting hard at her notebook, as though it was one of the inventory spreadsheets she took home from work. She assigns yayas to kid clusters, bracketing with her pen who is under whose care, who will account for whom, who will not have fun.
Your father hollers from the kitchen: so-and-so have been notified, they would bring the vans, the same ones you used last year, in front of the house the morning after tomorrow. He yells further that you ladies should travel light, for once. At that aside, your Mother and Aunts team up against your Father. A hollering match ensues.
Everyone seems to remember everything necessary—the kids, the things to bring, the food supply, the transportation arrangements, the contingency funds. You remember your sunburned back, the dehydration and frustration of hunting down your cousins, the fact that no matter how many goggles you bring, everyone will borrow them, leaving you squinting under the water.
Besides, you're afraid of sharks. But you don't tell them that.
Phase Two: Stage Your Play
On the wake-up-and-go morning, when everyone is saying “Tara na, tara na” when the hired vans are honking outside the front gate, show them why you were president of your high school's actors' guild. Your duffel bag—which you told them you had meticulously packed the night before—falls downstairs, ahead of you, as you hold on the rails, one hand on your stomach, your whole being in a grimace: “I don't feel so good. Maybe something I ate,” you say in a painful whisper.
Your Father and your uncles have already stuffed everything into the vans, including your aunts. You can hear eight different kiddie voices shouting just outside the window: alisnatayoalisnatayoalisnatayobilisbilisbilis!
Your mother wavers between worry and excitement. “It's ok, go on without me,” you tell her. Your mother sighs, and makes last minute yaya reassignments on her notebook.
“Pambihira,” your Father says, from the open door. “Ngayon pa.”
Your Mother quickly kisses your forehead and rushes out the door, past your Father, who eyes you with slits. “Call my cell if anything happens,” he says firmly and then walks out.
“I'll be fine,” you say a little louder, waving to them and smiling as they board the vans. As you hear engine sounds fading away, you straighten your posture.
They're all finally gone. A piece of summer all to yourself. You feel deliciously alone.
Phase Three: Enjoy the Peace
Something in the house, something now missing, has suddenly made you feel at home: your family. You love them, of course, and more so from a distance. In time, you say out loud, you will miss them.
Bending down to pick up your duffel bag, you remember that you don't have to. There's no one else in the house. No one will nag. Your back itches. But you suddenly realize you can scratch or not scratch as you so choose.
You savor the moment.
Unseen birds are chirping. Sunlight softened by the window shines on the coffee table. You decide that the first priority is food. You walk straight into the kitchen, destined for the refrigerator. You pick up the remote control on the way.
You wake up on the couch near the kitchen. You have left the TV on. Your coffee has gotten cold. The clock above the refrigerator says noon.
Still in a drifting Saturday morning mood, you assess at leisure what you may want to do, or not do, on this fine day. But then your nose itches. Somebody has to scratch it. You look at the remote on your right hand and the half-eaten pandesal on your left, and think of which to let go, so you can attend to that itch.
Although you're alone at home, you notice, you still have tough decisions to make.
Word-weaver. On quiet mornings, Ayen's sleepy eyes open and he rushes to the keyboard running after words he faintly heard, if only his 60-word per minute fingers can catch them, before they fade into silence. He likes to think that his MA Creative Writing classes at UP Diliman are either smoothening his prose or jacking up his typing skills.
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