Four-cornered love

There is a certain choke hold only balikbayan boxes have on me—a grip that starts the moment Mama calls and says, “Anak, may pinadala ako.”

From that very second, I’m caught in this strange, sweet kind of waiting. Days begin to move more slowly. Weeks stretch so long they almost feel cruel. Every knock on the gate makes my chest tighten—my mind racing with a single question: Could it be here already?

Waiting for a balikbayan box is its own kind of ritual. It is not just about expecting something new, but about anticipating something that traveled oceans with my mother’s hands behind every choice inside. The thrill lies not in the size of the box or on the brand of the items she sends, but in the knowledge that somewhere, far away, she walked into a store, picked something up, and thought, “This is for my anak.”

When the day finally comes and the box arrives, it’s impossible to play it cool. There it stands by the door—heavy, corners bruised from the long journey, sealed with enough tape to survive a storm. My name sits in one corner, written in her careful yet hurried handwriting, the kind that suggests she was thinking about a hundred other things while making sure it was legible.

I cut the tape open. And before I even see what’s inside, it hits me.

The smell.

That distinct balikbayan box smell—the one I could recognize anywhere. It’s a mix of fabric softener, cardboard, and something else I can never quite name. It’s the scent of her home mixing with mine, of two worlds colliding inside a cardboard frame. That smell clings to the clothes, seeps into the pillows, and wraps itself around every zipper, button, and fold. And for children like me, whose parents work abroad, it’s more than a smell. It is a presence. It is the closest thing to a hug from Mama I can get.

Inside, there are always the essentials. Shirts that still carry their store creases. Shoes so pristine—I hesitate to wear them. Sometimes there’s a kettle, shiny and untouched, replacing the one that’s been sputtering in our kitchen for years. There are pillows—soft, plump, inviting—as if she thought about how I sleep at night. There are bags that feel like she personally tucked in every zipper, double-checking if it was good enough for me.

But every item tells a bigger story. Each piece of clothing is a shift she worked past exhaustion. Each appliance is a meal she skipped so she could save a little more. Each pillow is a night she went to bed thinking about home, about me. People outside this life might just see things—pasalubong (gifts)—but I see sacrifices folded neatly in plastic wrap.

I have grown up hearing what it’s like to be an overseas Filipino worker. I know the words: homesickness, culture shock, and loneliness. I’ve heard Mama talk about the cold mornings, the long hours, the language she had to twist her tongue to speak. But hearing those stories is nothing compared to living in the space her absence leaves. You learn that there’s a different kind of quiet in a house where a parent is missing—not silence exactly, but a hum of longing that lingers in every corner.

That’s why the balikbayan box is more than just a box. It’s a bridge. It’s a piece of her that manages to cross the miles and the seas between us. It’s proof that even when she’s far away, she is still present in the ways that matter most. And when the box is emptied, I never see it as disposable. Sometimes I keep it in my room, stacking old toys or school projects inside. Other times, it becomes a makeshift table, standing steady in a corner. But to me, it has never been just cardboard—it’s a chapter of my life that I can touch.

Years from now, when the tape has yellowed and the sides have softened, it might look like nothing special to anyone else. Just another used box. But I’ll remember the excitement it carried into our home, the scent that made me stop and close my eyes, the way it turned an ordinary day into something worth holding on to.

I will remember how it taught me that love can travel across oceans and still arrive whole. I will remember that it was never really about the shirts, the shoes, nor the kettles—it was about the hands that packed them, the heart that chose them, and the miles they crossed to get to me.

The balikbayan box is not just a container of goods. It is a container of stories, of sacrifices, of a mother’s love stretched thin but never broken. And every time I open one, my smile will always reach the heavens—because in that moment, even just for a while, Mama is home.

The box that kept me close to her, even when she was oceans away.

—————-

Vinz Thyrone C. Asuncion, 20, is a third-year linguistics major from Mariano Marcos State University who dreams to live and write his heart out and be himself with no judgment.