Home is a plastic bag of ‘sinigang’

I close my eyes, opening them slowly as I look at the sight right in front of me. It was of graduates getting their photographs taken and mortarboards being thrown into the air. I only have a few months left before I graduate from college and leave this place.

Living in the city felt fast. One moment, I was a freshman, navigating the campus as I looked for the building where my class was located. In just the blink of an eye, I am already a college senior, going to job expos and attending career talks. A few weeks from now, my internship will come to an end, and I will be defending my thesis. In November, I will be going up the stage to receive my diploma.

The places where my friends and I once hung out during breaks will soon be filled only by memories of our laughter and stories. The apartments we once lived in will be empty of our belongings, waiting for a new tenant to occupy them. The only part of us that will linger will be the memories—times we cried, times we crammed our homework, times we laughed, and the times we accidentally fell asleep on the floor with our laptops open.

Usually, one feels excited. Who wouldn’t be? Opportunity after opportunity would be laid on the table; options to choose from and various paths to take. It’s the chance to be successful, to live the life they want, to finally make a difference in this world.

I am not one of those people. For the past few months, I’ve been contemplating what career or path to take. Should I go to law school? I certainly don’t dream of becoming a lawyer. Taking up law wouldn’t give me the satisfaction I’ve been searching for. What about a master’s degree? My professor said in our last class not to take up a master’s if you feel bored or lost. He didn’t elaborate why. He just congratulated us, saying he hopes to not see a single one of us next semester. That was his way of saying he hopes we graduate on time, and no one fails.

A job is hard to look for. My humanities degree has fewer opportunities, unlike engineering. There was always this running joke about how taking up humanities meant being unemployed after college. There has always been some truth to it. I’ve heard of seniors struggling to look for a job right after graduation. It’s truly sad how our programs are not given the same amount of importance.

I look out the window of my apartment, seeing cars roar past the streets of Metro Manila. I miss the quietness of the province. A pot of coffee waits on the kitchen counter, waiting to be reheated. Dark circles start to appear underneath my eyes. My cat is curled up beside me, sleeping peacefully. How I wish to be reincarnated as one in my next life. That way, I’d get to sleep for longer.

I decided to go out—not because I was ignoring my responsibilities—I just needed to take a breather. I wore my favorite pair of black shoes before exiting my apartment.

I went to this tiny bar situated in Katipunan. It wasn’t a club, rather a place meant to chill and unwind. I ordered a bottle of beer and onion rings. I drank, my mind feeling a bit hazy. I know I’ll have a hangover by the time the sun rises tomorrow. I don’t mind.

I offer my cheers to those inside the bar. To the couple celebrating their third anniversary. The nurse who had just gotten her license. The chef who cooked the onion rings to perfection: dark brown and crispy. To the waitress who always welcomed me with a smile. To me, because I think I deserve a pat on the back.

It took a while before the alcohol took effect. I look at the time—it’s way past 2 in the morning.

The city is quieter on the way home. My steps are steady, my mind hazy with alcohol. I pass a cluster of street cats under a flickering light near my apartment. I kneel, pulling out a small bag of treats. They inch closer. They don’t belong to me, but at that moment, they’re mine. Some follow me home, shadows trailing behind.

When I enter my unit, the scent of sinigang fills the air—sour, rich, familiar. I look at my counter and see a plastic bag filled with rice and my mother’s home-cooked meal. She must have left it for me earlier while I was out.

“A mother’s intuition is always right,” they always say. She must know how much I miss home. How I’m craving sinigang after a night out. I usually order takeout. But tonight is different. Tonight, a piece of home is brought to me.

I slip off my shoes and sit at the table. I slurp the soup, its warmth spreading through me. My cat is curled right beneath my feet, sleeping as he waits for me to finish.

After dinner, I wash the dishes. The sound of water running and being alone gives me comfort. For so long, I was afraid of living on my own. I spent most of my days surrounded by the wrong people, afraid of the quietness that lingered when no one was around.

But now, I’ve learned to appreciate the comforting sound of nothing. Of doing things independently. Of being free all by myself.

In the quiet corners of the city, the street cats roam, slipping between shadows, waiting for the familiar footsteps of someone who has made a habit of caring.

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Maria Francesca Josefina Patrocinia V. Pascual, 21, is a political science student at the De La Salle University. Her name is a tribute to her grandmothers.