IF IT were only possible, I would gather up all my fondest memories of Sundays, file them into one boundless photo album and like a video playlist, rack them all up cued in my mind, ensuring that all my rainy afternoons are thereby less dreary.
As it has always been, Sundays during our childhood days growing up have mostly been made up of festive family affairs where back then, all our much older folks were still around and bustling lively about, around the old ancestral house along Ponciano Reyes street. When we eventually moved to our present residence in Bajada (which eventually grew into a family compound), my parents and Aunt Nena had by then assumed the granny roles, as our beloved grandparents had already passed and it was our children’s turn to rule the lawns. Still, our Sundays maintained their old airs, with lunch and gatherings made extra special during birthdays and other trad occasions.
It didn’t take long for the coming of great grandchildren to overlap our nephews’ and nieces’ domination in our parents’ hearts and when they were gone, the role of grandparents naturally defaulted to us. By then, it had looked as if every generation seems to take their turns at our own version of diminishing chairs, Trip to Jerusalem. Now, I sadly look and with only a few of us old guards remaining, the happy fort has slowly begun to look like Allende’s house of spirits.
Yet lo and behold, the coming of newborns are almost always so much like Sundays. While the latter are not considered the start of the week for nothing, our dear babies, in all cultures, signify continuance and endurance. Not merely limited to the realm of the family, their significance extends far beyond our village so that it is the world that eventually becomes their teacher. As this is so, despite the trying times, we are fully assured that life goes on.
Back by the window and it’s still raining. Memories of Sundays gone by and more promising Sundays to come. With babies now and the pitter patter of tiny feet next year. Come to think of it, here’s what I wrote long ago of these adorable tiny feet…
You see, there is something poignant in a baby’s first steps. As he walks towards you, unsure and awkward (also cute) in his gait, the determination and purpose shining through those little eyes are, at the same time, tell-tale hints that, later in life, when he is grown, he will be walking away from you to lead a life all his own.
When the time comes and we’re all but part of their memories, I wish they too treasure Sundays.
