A Story of Home

I hear the whisper of the wind before I can even open my eyes wanting to take a peek in the window masked by a shutter as the ray of the sun slowly writhes from the crevices. The wind is somewhat whispering my name telling me to get up and let her in. The sun envelops me warmly to cast these snuggly covers around me. As much as I wanted to spend the weekend stuck in my bed, I can’t. Living away from home has its own perks but it also comes with a whole lot of responsibility. In reality, I have to work hard to stay rooted just like the trees outside being swayed by the gusting wind. They have to stand tall to survive the present and the ensuing days.


I slowly opened the window as the light stung my half-opened sluggish eyes. I can feel the gentle breeze evoking a sense of familiarity. And just like that, the memories hit me in a rush and I was back in Baguio again. The gentle breeze rustling the leaves reminds me of the breeze from the Cordilleran mountains. I can still taste the aromatic flavor of that cup of local arabica coffee while lounging in our veranda savoring the view of those tree-covered steep slopes while my messy bun is being blown away by the soothing hum of the wind. 


I cherish being a local. I remember the cold weather which is the best tourist attraction the city can offer. Tourists spend their precious money on a slice of what locals enjoyed all year-round. I remember my neighborhood where locals are affable and hospitable always donning a smile. 


The wind hums a song sending sentiments and I wonder why sudden emotions are being stirred. It’s the September feeling and it is then I became aware of where the emotions are coming from. I quickly searched for my phone as my fingers operate the screen. I plunge back into the cloud of linens and comforter, it’s almost Christmas, 58 days to be exact and I’m missing my home.


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