Young and Reckless

Memories are tricky. My most vivid, earliest, and also happens to be my favorite was from when I was really young. It’s also the most retold story that I’ve heard from that time (and with each recount my age varies between 2-4. Lol). Between my mom, my aunt, and my grandma who enjoy recalling the events of that day, I wonder whether the memory I have of it are my own recollections or products of their retellings. 

Before we moved to live with my grandmother, my family lived in a tiny house at a village in one of the hilly areas in Cebu City (Philippines). One of the big church denominations (my mother couldn’t recall which one) had a school there where one of my cousins, who is at least 6 years older, was enrolled. They had a free daycare center so my mother signed me up so I’d be out of her hair while she worked.

Every day I walked with my cousin to and from the center. He was my unofficial babysitter. I hung out with him, his friends,  and with the other older kids in the neighborhood. We ran across the valley like wild horses, climbed the hills to frolick on the grass and watch the sun set, played sha-tong (a game that involved sticks), scared the feline population from their perches, and stared at random cars that made wrong turns into our cul-de-sac. The memories I have of those fun-filled afternoons are definitely my own. Despite the absence of anyone to reminisce those days with, they’re as clear to me as the ones I have shared with Nero, my beloved dog who never let me out of his sight and followed me like a shadow (I sorely miss him!). 

When we moved in with my grandmother, I kept going to the same daycare because even though it was a few miles away, it was free and my mother is practical like that. My aunt, who is not as fun as my cousin, shuttled me back and forth. I remember days when I teared up as I saw my cousin and his friends walk away together and I had to stay behind to wait for my aunt to get me. 

One afternoon, after all the children have left, I sat by the gate as usual and waited. My aunt was late and I must’ve gotten tired of waiting or perhaps thought she had forgotten me because I decided to walk home by myself. I don’t know why instead of going to my cousin’s house, which was closer, I took the trek to my grandma’s.

I cried while I walked. Was it fear that brought on the tears? Was it in anticipation of my mother’s worried reaction? Or was it the tiredness felt by a child who had to walk a few miles on short legs? I could only surmise.

Halfway through my walk, a kind woman asked me if I was lost and if she should call the police. I told her I wasn’t and that if I was I could call my uncle who was a police officer. She insisted that she take me in her car to wherever I was headed but I refused. Back then, I had the sense to not trust strangers, even the nice ones. 

I walked on not knowing that the woman and her husband followed me from a distance. When I got to my grandma’s, there was a commotion because they thought something bad happened to me. Apparently, I was missing for a few hours. My tiny feet did not take me home fast enough.

The kind couple (my guardian angels), who from a distance made sure I got to my destination safely, talked at length with my mom about the events that transpired from the time they saw me, the words we exchanged, and how impressed they were that I knew where to go and at the bravery I showed. I am willing to bet that their comments saved me from a scolding that day. What prompted me to be that reckless anyway? Perhaps the restlessness and the desire for adventure was already strong in my 2/3/4-year-old-self. 

I had a colorful childhood. It was littered with stories that could fill a book. Whether they’re my own recollections or acquired memories,  I wouldn’t trade any of it for anything else.

Two feet and a heart for adventure.