Dearest Lala and Abbie,

Tonight the moon is full, and as I gazed at it in wonder, it carried me back to a night in Palompon Leyte long ago. The moon was whole then too, the sky bright and watchful. Papu had returned from the district that evening, and I remember how happy I was in a way only a child can be, certain that joy have finally arrived even for a while.

The day had been filled with laughter. Papu and I ran around the house, turning the living room into a kind of joyful quicksand toys scattered everywhere, blankets piled high, boxes and buckets transformed into castles and hiding places. I did not often get to play with Papu the way you now play with your tatay and your papa. He was always away, traveling through the district to visit church members. But that day was different. That day, I had Papu all to myself.

After dinner, around a table filled with faces I loved dearly, the night slowly lulled us in. One by one, we surrendered to sleep, tucked into our places, drifting into dreams. Outside, the moon cast its fullness over the sleeping town of Palompon. Everything felt calm, held together by light.

Then there was a voice.

At first it was faint, almost mistaken for part of a dream. Then it grew nearer loud, clear, and frantic.

Fire.

I heard footsteps next. Running. Shouting. People carrying whatever their hands could hold. Mothers panicked, clutching crying babies. Toddlers stumbling beside them, frightened and confused. Papu and Mamu woke at once, alarmed, trying to understand the commotion. I stood up slowly, still half dreaming, dragging my old blanket behind me, clutching my favorite teddy bear.

At the window, I saw the sky burning orange and red with rage. It was the night hell broke loose.

Voices filled the air, thick with smoke and fear. A fire had broken out on the street next to ours. Papu and Mamu rushed through the house, trying to save what they could books, plates and pans, furniture what little we had. The piano. Mamu’s piano. Her wedding gift from her mommy and daddy. The piano that had helped feed us when Papu’s small stipend was not enough.

But the fire was moving fast. There was no time.

In the haste and terror of that moment, Papu reached for Mamu’s hand. I pressed myself between them, seeking safety. The three of us knelt together and prayed.

That night, under a bright and unyielding moon, Papu prayed for rain.

Then we heard the sound of firetrucks in the distance, their cries cutting through the night. The air was thick with smoke and sweat. People ran through the streets carrying buckets of water, fighting the fire with whatever strength they could gather, as if courage alone might be enough. But the fire was determined. It breathed, angry and consuming, certain of its power.

There was nothing else to do but wait.

The night seemed to stretch and thin, slowly fading towards oblivion. We stood there, emptied of choice, watching and listening, holding our breath. Then I felt it a single drop on my cheek. For a moment, I thought it was water flung from a firetruck, a stray splash carried by the wind.

Then another drop fell. And another.

Soon the drops multiplied, cool and unmistakable, turning into a steady pour. The sky, which had watched in silence, finally answered. Rain came down hard, as if summoned by prayer, washing the smoke from the air and breaking the fire’s grip. We stood soaked and trembling, soot smeared across our faces, realizing only then that the night had been returned to us. It was as if it had been borrowed for a moment taken by fire and fear and then gently placed back into our hands.

I have never forgotten that night. The night the heavens answered with rain beneath a full, majestic moon. Fire still smoldered, smoke still lingered, but something greater had arrived. In my memory, the rain did not simply fall it descended with purpose, with mercy. Even the moon, unbroken and luminous, watched over us as if to say that even in devastation, there are moments when grace finds its way through.

Dear Lala and Abbie,

It is such a pleasure to look at photographs of you with your nanay and tatay, your mama and papa faces folded together by love and affection. When I see them, I am carried back to a place I have not visited in years, yet somehow never left.

I was once young like you, growing up in Palompon, Leyte a small island in the Philippines where the beaches were generous and beautiful, and the typhoons just as faithful. Not a single year passed without the island being swept by fierce winds and heavy rain, the kind that rearranged lives overnight and left people counting what remained. Even so, there were afternoons of quiet grace. When the tide was low and the sun leaned toward the sea, I remember walking along the shore, gathering seashells and tucking them into the fold of my dress, as if I were collecting small pieces of happiness to bring home.

Your papu was often away then, traveling to visit churches. Mamu and I stayed behind in the house, learning how to make time stretch gently. My memories of Leyte come only in fragments small, bright pieces rather than a full picture. I was very young. Still, I remember an old lady with a large house. I cannot recall how mamu and papu came to know her. She did not belong to the same church, yet she showed us kindness that required no grand explanation.

Papu was a young district pastor then. Mamu was humble and quiet in her ways, though her hands carried music. Sometimes the nuns at the convent hired her to play the piano for their church choir. Other times, she gave piano lessons to neighborhood children, their small fingers stiff with effort and hope. Our life was modest, and finding a home was never easy. With papu’s work as a minister, securing a place large enough for a family one we could afford, with water and electricity always felt just beyond reach.

The old lady offered us the lower part of her house. To me, it felt enormous and beautiful. There was a wicker sofa, sturdy and welcoming, and every morning I would sit there with my toys while the soft wind moved through the curtains, as if the house itself were breathing. I did not see the old lady often, but her presence lingered everywhere. Her kindness filled the rooms more completely than furniture ever could.

One of my fondest memories of living in Leyte returns to me in a rhythm, the way certain rituals do, steady and reassuring. Every week or so, my friends and I and all the children in the neighborhood were called to line up in front of the barangay health center. We stood there patiently, our names and bodies measured as if they were part of a careful ledger. The health volunteers took our temperature, noted our height, and then placed us on a weighing scale suspended so high it felt less like an instrument and more like a swing. We were hoisted briefly into the air, light with anticipation, watched by the others waiting for their turn.

We were eager, almost giddy, shuffling forward, whispering and laughing. And when it was over, we lined up once more not for measurement, but for reward. Each of us received a ration of cheap granola and skimmed milk. We poured them into rolled pieces of paper and tipped the contents into our mouths, slow and deliberate, as if we were tasting something rare. To us, they were precious treats, worthy of convocation.

Life in that small corner of the island was meager. Families lived in narrow shanties along the shore, houses made of wood and tin, holding very little in the way of possessions or certainty. Food was often scarce. Yet what I remember most clearly is not the hunger, but the sound of children’s laughter drifting across the sand, lingering in the salty air. It was as if happiness, against all logic, had learned how to survive there, glittering quietly at our feet, mixed in with the shells and the tide.

I have always been fascinated by a modest life, the kind that moves quietly and does not ask to be admired. In Leyte, after long afternoons spent playing with my friends along the shore frolicking in the heat, our faces sunburned and slick with sweat I was often invited into their homes for lunch. At the time, I accepted without hesitation, with the easy hunger of a child and the assumption that food, like play, would simply appear.

I did not understand then how precious food was to them. I did not know that every grain of rice had been counted, that each spoonful was meant to stretch far enough to become both the first and last meal of the day for a family. Still, they invited me in. They made room.

I remember sitting inside those small shanties, the walls close, the air heavy with warmth and familiarity, surrounded by friends and their families. There was a joy that filled me, a feeling larger than the space itself being welcomed so eagerly, offered what little there was without hesitation or explanation. Only later did I realized the generosity of that act, how quiet and complete it was.

That kind of sharing leaves a mark. It teaches you that abundance is not always measured by what is kept, but by what is given away. Even now, when I think of a life well lived, I think of those meals simple, fleeting, and offered with a kindness that asked for nothing in return.

Some kindnesses do not announce themselves. They simply stay, long after the people who offered them have faded into memory. Even now, I feel that quiet generosity when I think of that house, that island, my first home.

Dearest Lala and Abbie,

Your fondness for reading comes from a deep pool of readers, a lineage shaped by the quite discipline your great-grandfather insisted upon. In a modest, charming home shaded by the reaching branches of large guava trees, I first learned the particular joy that reading brings, the kind that settles into you and stays.

During the summers I spent with Lolo and Lola, time moved slowly, as if it, too, had decided to rest in the shade. In the afternoon past siesta time, when I am done wandering through cacao trees and hacking my way through the bushes, I remember lifting though the crisp pages of Reader’s Digest its thin pages smelling faintly of ink.

I remember there was a TV in the living room but it was never turned on except for the evening news or the occasional documentary, next to it were neatly stacked volumes of Reader’s Digest, which arrived faithfully each month in the mail their glossy covers catching the light. The television itself was always locked, as if temptation had been formally denied. But the book shelf beside it remained slightly open, inviting, almost conspiratorial, as though they were quietly urging you to reach in and take a book instead.

I was not always fond of your great-grandpa. In truth, he frightened me. His rules were many, his discipline iron-tight, and his presence filled a room long before he spoke. He was a teacher, known by his students for his strictness and for the thin bamboo stick he always carry, called Oway, always ready, always visible, like a warning made of bamboo.

He set rules that seemed suited for royalty, though we were far from it. Our dining table wasn’t long and we did not eat with silver spoons or forks. Still, the way we ate mattered greatly. The spoon and fork must never make a sound against the plate. Arms were not to stretch across the table in greedy reach. Instead, there were proper words, carefully spoken “Please pass the rice,” or whatever dish sat just beyond your place.

Close you mouth, chew your food quietly and slowly, do not talk with food in your mouth, never leave the table while the elders were still eating and if you truly had to leave, you asked permission, excusing yourself with such politeness it felt almost ceremonial.

At the time, I resented these rules. They made me tense, self-conscious, afraid of making the smallest mistake. But now, when I look back, I see something else beneath the fear. He was teaching us restraint, awareness, respect not only for others, but for ourselves. What felt like control was also care and love delivered in a language he knew best: order, discipline, and quiet expectation.

Dearest Lala and Abbie,

Today, as me and A-oh drove through streets lined with pushcarts smoke lifting from grilled chicken sheltered under huge umbrellas, I think of your great-grandmother, Lola Perla. In the Philippines, when I was young, umbrellas were not a small convenience. They were a necessity. We used them for rain, of course, and to shield ourselves from the punishing heat of the sun but they also served another purpose, one spoken of quietly and with complete practicality.

Back then, comfort rooms were not always available. When the need came especially for women our umbrellas became a kind of a moving wall, a portable room of dignity. Usually a bushy patch by the roadside and a large umbrella held just right was enough.

So whenever I see umbrellas now, I remember Lola Perla and one particular journey to Acmonan, a small barrio resting at the foot of the majestic Mount Matutum. Every summer, Lolo would send for me to spend the summer with him and Lola or sometimes with my uncles, aunties and cousins. The trip took one bus, a jeepney, and a tricycle  ride from the district where your papu was assigned as a church pastor. I would wait for summer so eagerly, dreaming of guava trees heavy with fruits and the sweet smell wafting from a pot of guava jam Lola used to make.

That summer, I rode the bus sitting on a sack of corn to save fare, my feet dangling, while Grandma dozed beside me, her head nodding with the rhythm of the road. The aisle was crowded with sacks of rice and boxes of fruit, everything stacked and wedged as if the bus itself were holding its breath. Then the bus stopped at a roadside karenderia, so passengers could eat and prepare for the rest of the long journey.

Suddenly grandma nudged me awake. “Take the umbrella,” she said softly.

I understood at once.

We maneuvered our way down the aisle, stepping over cargo and squeezing past knees, climbed off and went to the side of the bus. I held the umbrella in place, my duty clear and serious. But before we had fully settled, the bus suddenly lurched forward and pulled away.

There stood grandma, abruptly exposed, holding nothing but the umbrella. In one swift, instinctive motion, she lifted it to cover her face, as if modesty itself could be preserved by hiding her expression. I stood frozen, half horrified, half amused, watching the bus moved down the road.

Even now, years later, the memory makes me smile. It reminds me that dignity is not always graceful, that survival often comes with laughter close behind. Grandma and I survived the the rest of the long journey home. That memory, even now, tugs at a small string in my heart one tied to laughter and fondness. It is the kind of laughter that arrives late, after embarrassment has softened into a story. When I think of your great grandma, lola Perla lifting that umbrella to hide her face, I feel again the warmth of that moment and I know that some memories stay not because they were grand, but because they were shared with the people we love.

Dearest Lala and Abbie,

I want to tell you a story, though it is not the sort you might expect. It is not about a princess locked in a castle tower, waiting for her prince, nor is it about how I traveled the world in the glossy way like most people do, boat rides drifting through Venice, skis slicing the white slopes of Switzerland, highways unfurling across America, or a sunburned walkabout in Australia. 

This story is quieter.

It is about how I traveled through life the way some people traveled back roads jolted awake by potholes, gripping the door handle, laughing at the bad timing of it all. When I saw the world through the scratched, stubborn window of a beat-up old Toyota Corolla, the kind that rattles when it starts and at times refuses to drive, the kind that carries groceries, arguments, tired sighs, and sudden joy all in the same day.

From that window, the view was not always beautiful. Sometimes it was rain blurring streetlights, dust rising from roads that led nowhere special or sometimes it was driving through the heat of the summer sun when the the air conditioner was dead. But sometimes unexpectedly it was breathtaking, the slant of the afternoon light, a familiar wave of a hand, the lights in the tennis court where I sat in the car watching A-oh play tennis behind the unwashed windshield filled with bird poop and fallen dandelions or just the comfort of knowing where I was going even when the road felt wrong.

It was not always a smooth ride but I felt the movement knowing that I was still going somewhere. This is how I saw the world through dents and delays, through laughter that came after tears, through a dusty windshield that proved I had been places, even without needing a stamp in my passport.

And I kept looking out that car window for as long as I could.

Sometimes, when I was traveling passing dinner take-out shops and the slow green canals on my way to the university where I used to teach, a memory would rise up like an early morning mist. 

I remember when I was young, my sister and brother packed inside the back of a truck stacked high with wooden crates. It was still early morning, the air cool and unfinished, as we traveled the long road to your papu’s new church assignment. The road felt endless but it was an adventure. We bumped and swayed together, bodies pressed close, our favorite snacks on our hands and our laughter bouncing off the sides of the truck.

Your mamu had packed too much food, as she always did. There was chicken adobo, rich and oily, and rice wrapped tightly in coconut leaves, the kind we called puso, warm and comforting in the hands. The food made the journey feel safe, like home moving with us.

Then, hours into the trip, something unexpected happened. A chicken, a parting gift from a neighbor suddenly leapt from its cage and out of the truck. In an instant, everyone jumped down after it. The chicken ran wildly down the road, wings flapping, clearly delighted by its sudden freedom. Trucks and cars honked in protest as the road slowed to a halt, while the adults shouted and laughed, chasing a bird that had no intention of being caught.

Even now, I could see it clearly that a chicken darting ahead, the noise and confusion, the joy hidden inside the inconvenience was a chaos, harmless and full of life and as we drove passed familiar sights I smiled, remembering how freedom once looked like a chicken on a busy road, and how happiness, back then, came wrapped in banana leaves over shared laughter and the thrill of driving forward towards a new home.

And as we drove in our beat up Toyota car, your A-oh humming behind the wheel I could still remember that day. I was young again. The tires rattling against the road and the world passing by in fragments. As my little sister and brother softly breathed along the hum of that humungous truck I watched the road ahead. I did not know what the new home would be like, only that it was waiting somewhere at the end of that long, dusty drive.