young modern.

If walls could talk, you would tell the story of my childhood, of a little girl with curls running through your hallways and doorways, sometimes stumbling, bursting her lip once when she tripped on the step in the terrace, crying, being picked up by yaya (it's hard to remember which yaya it was), being carried, and nudged, and led by many different pairs of firm but loving arms: mama, papa, and also Nita, Kristy, Bebeng, and the blur of faces of the household help that have come and gone through the years.

From the 3-year old I was when I moved here, you saw me turn 4, then 5, then 6, then 7... a flurry of birthday cakes, birthday candles, and birthday games. Many times you have watched me leave. You saw me leave for my first day of school, and eventually became accustomed to me leaving everyday. You saw me leave for my first real trip out of the country when I was 8. When I grew older, you would see me leave with friends, then even later on, boyfriends. You got to know each of their faces, and even now, your walls, your corners bear imprints of them. You saw me leave many, many times, but always, I would return.

In a few hours you will see me leave for the final time. I will not be returning, not for very long, and when I do return, you might not recognize me. I might be so far away from the little girl whom you saw grow up. But maybe you will see my hair and remember. Twenty years I have lived here. Twenty years have I laughed, and cried, and suffered, and grown, and celebrated, and loved, and lived under this roof. Twenty seems like a good number to end things with.

From the moment I ride the car later and pull out of the drive-way (for one last time), I know nothing will ever be the same. Even if I return to you, your face will have changed. For leaving this house behind also means leaving the kindred souls who have also found themselves a home in this house, friends and neighbours whom my family always took in. This house was a gathering place. Just as we always seemed to have room for one more (or two, or three... or five!) at our tiny dining table, this house taught me that no matter how impossible it seems, there is always, always room in my heart for one more person.

This day is a funeral, an ending. I'm leaving my childhood behind. It is all I've ever known, but not all I will ever have. I'm leaving the house behind but maybe I'll take the home with me.

***

I've had 6 despedidas, and I want to write about all of them when everything settles.