Running and running away

Four years old. This early memory is hazy, like the clouds of that windy day, when I had been wailing as my foil balloon floated to the sky without a care for my feelings. I believe the balloon had been either pink, purple, or magenta, decorated with a cartoon character, and my father had bargained for a cheaper price after Mass. The string had slipped through my little fingers because I had been stubborn about tying it around my wrist. Itchy. I could handle it, I said. I was a big girl. There was no point in going through all the trouble.

My mother had scolded me for being careless and had given me the I-told-you-so look. I got mad, naturally, because why did she not run after it fast enough, knowing she could have easily saved it? She just really had to prove a point at the expense of my balloon!

Nine years old

I walked down the hall sickly with the posture of a wilted flower, and the slouch had made my backpack look as though it was larger than my wimpy body. The sun shone brightly above—and I could have sworn that mornings were usually not that cold—but I was shivering uncontrollably even with a jacket on. My arms ached at my sides. My tongue refused to salivate despite my thirst. The teacher put a hand on my face and told me I was pale and feverish.

We called my mother about it. And I could instantly tell that she was panicking despite her steady voice. She must have been frowning at that moment as well, her soothing words passing through as choppy sounds of my teacher’s phone. She said she would run her way out of the house as fast as she could, all the way to the streets so she could flag a taxi immediately. Then we would have a steamy bowl of chicken soup at home, and we would watch a few episodes of “SpongeBob” together before she would force me to sleep and get all the rest I needed. She had been my hero that day—a mother with incredible superspeed and an incomparable honor.

13 years old

She never understood anything. Never. How could she know how tiring it was to run and study and do so many things all at once, when all she did was laze about our home, doing whatever, petting the dog, or watching TV, or gossiping, or sleeping, and—just how? She would never understand that the world outside our home was my solace and liberty, where I ran freely without all the usual arguments and yelling and screaming and all those piercing silences that immediately came after. She would never understand, because she had never bothered to leave that one poisonous cage we called home.

I had run so much for PE class one day, I had to go through the rest of it with a soreness that pulled and twisted at every movement of a muscle, and she still had the heartlessness to nag at me the moment I set foot into our cramped living room. She was telling me to go run my errands. To run to the sari-sari store and be quick so she could have more time to cook before my dad gets home.

I held my tongue before it could run its way to an argument. I sighed. She would never understand. Never.

17 years old

In the darkness of our bedroom, late at night, my sister told me how my mother had cried so desperately, almost pathetically, wailing out her heavy grief so badly that there was no point choking it down into secrecy—that I had run away from home because I—I could not even remember.

I could only recall that I did find my way back home, back to her. That I had run into the harbor of her open arms, forgiving and filled with unconditional love.

20 years old

The water ran down the sink as I slowly washed the dishes, humming to the tune of a mellow Taylor Swift love song. I was back home for the holidays; I made the most of it by staying inside, and when I did go out, I would find myself nestled on my bed like a baby once I got back. There was something about home. Something that made me want to stay there forever.

It was cooler in my beloved hometown, Davao, and night arrived earlier there than in the heart of Metro Manila. The sunlight fell by the window, and I basked in the kitchen’s comfort—not the size, though it was larger than my dorm room—but of the old familiarity of it. I could tell my mom was as comforted, cooking right beside me with a light atmosphere about her, and I was so excited to finally have her homemade meals. Fast food and letting myself go hungry were not the most enjoyable experiences.

My mother’s chicken soup wafted its savory scent to the dining area, where I had already set up all the plates on top of the fancy table runner. The utensils were silver but grayish in some parts. The plates were colorful and decorated with flowers. The glasses were mismatched, but I thought they made the table look more cheerful.

My mother smiled, called for my father and siblings with a tender voice. And there in my greatest peace, I wondered with great incomprehension how the thought of running away from her had ever crossed my mind.

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Jade Encabo, 20, is a creative writing major at the University of the Philippines Diliman.