Category: Blog

I hear the quiet murmur of the cool-mist humidifier through the baby monitor and its sound is smooth and trance-like. I can see why it helps you sleep. My eyelids, too, are slowly closing to that hum and I have to shake my head to wake myself. It amazes me how delicious sleep is for you, it’s nourishment really, and I yearn to sleep like that again. The eight-interrupted-hours-a-night just don’t compare to your ten-plus hours a night and the two-and-a-half nap-time hours. That siesta time is the greatest escape; I especially thought so when you were still developing in my womb and I could partake in a siesta at my then-office. I would close the door and surrender to the lull of pregnancy exhaustion for a good fifteen minutes. That was enough to lift the fog and renew my strength for the next few hours.

My father, your grandfather, used to take a daily siesta once he had to stay home. He was sick, you know. He had many heart, circulation ailments, and they soon impeded his ability to work. So, he was the stay-at-home parent and would always pick me up from school, walking, when I was in elementary school since it was a walkable distance; later, when I started middle and high schools, he would be home when the bus dropped my off since then we lived farther away from my schools. During the summer or holidays, I would stay home with my father, and every day, after lunch, my father took his noon-time siesta. I usually welcomed this because that meant that I had at least an hour of uninterrupted me time. I could watch tv, I could read, I could play and let my imagination soar. When I got older, I sometimes would take advantage and hop on the 71 bus all the way to International Mall where I would spend an afternoon of window shopping and trying on clothes I couldn’t afford. I would take a book with me for the bus ride, and in between words I would peek at my fellow bus-mates; I would imagine what lives they held and who they were.

Along with the siestas, my father loved music, as I see you do, too. When I was younger, he listened to Piero mostly, among others like Garzon y Collazos. Many of Piero’s songs detailed the type of life my father yearned for, a life of the simple past he called it – when everything was not complicated by technology or laziness, according to him. A few of his favorites were De Vez En Cuando Viene Bien Dormir (Every now and then it’s good to sleep), Fumemos un Cigarrillo (Let’s smoke a cigarette), and Mi Viejo (My Old Man). These were staples of his life.

After the rain cleared up, we took a stroll in our backyard. It was the aftermath of rain: lemon yellow and black spotted butterflies made their rounds through the bushes and trees, ants emerged from crevices on the broken cement, and lizards came out of their respective shelters to see what the options were for dinner. This particular one is Laura the Lizard. She lives alongside Lorenzo the lizard in our small decorative fireplace. There’s a lone piece of “wood” under which, at various times of the day, one can find them lounging around. Laura is the smaller of the two, as you can see in the picture below. Lorenzo is a larger lizard, who looks as if he’s had one-too-many insects to eat. Lorenzo is usually not keen on human attention, but Laura curiously watched me approach her, camera in hand. She allowed me to approach enough to get some close-ups using the camera’s close-up mode, and I only wish I’d taken more advantage of that allowance.

The day creeps by as I wait for night to get here. The morning has seen torrential rains, with the continuous drumming of the drops on the roof lulling us into a hypnotic sleep. The sky outside so dark that we are confused as to whether it really is morning, although our trusty digital clock screams in neon green: 10:34 am. I’m silently thankful, though, that the rain is now, and not at 10:34 pm because then that would mean I would have to open the gates to our two close-to-a-hundred-pound dogs (who I secretly think sported feathers and a beak in another life) so they can join us upstairs, having the clackity-clack of their nails on our pergo wood floors provide the beat to the air purifier’s purring and the rain’s drumming. Right now, Baxter sits close to our feet as the rain is joined by thunder and lightening, his hind legs trembling. Buffy doesn’t mind as much, although if Baxter gets started enough, she is right there following his example. Great. So, I’m sitting here, going through my pictures, and found the one place I’d love to be right now:

I can just see myself under that umbrella, basking in the sun’s warm rays, taking in all that vitamin D (with protection of course) that we usually lack because we’re stuck indoors between sterile walls. Next week, I will be there!

It’s cleared up somewhat now; the clouds have parted and the soft breeze is making our bougainvillea and backyard trees dance to its rhythm. I see blue again, mingling with the puffs of cotton that decorate the sky. There’s also light again, which means I can go back to saving on electricity and using good ol‘ mother nature.

I grew up with dogs – mutts always. The first one I remember was Pirula. She was a white mutt, with curly, creamy hair that covered her entire body. I had her since she was a puppy, small enough to fit within the empty space between my four-year-old palms. I have pictures of me in my pink Barbie tricycle, carrying Pirula in the back compartment as if she were just another luggage item in my young traveler’s mind. Other pictures show a more grown-up Pirula licking my father’s feet as he lay on the couch, recovering from his broken fingers that had been caught in a garage door.

After that I remember Princess, my black, shiny coated Labrador mutt. She has short, straight black hair and a skinny tale. She ran with me in the backyard of my Westchester home, and became part of my make-believe games. She was there by my side whenever I had to clean up in the backyard – there’s a picture of me at about seven years old, wearing a mustard yellow and black handkerchief on my hair, picking up what I can only imagine to be dog excrements from the recently cut grass. Princess is right there beside me as if guarding me, protecting me, as if she sensed that I needed that extra companion. She accompanied me when I wanted to lay on our cream and brown lawn chairs to catch some rays of sun – she lay curled in a small, black ball, reflecting the sunlight off her coat.

Then there was Lucky. I have never had a dog so hyper, although there are pictures of me in my early years with an exact duplicate of Lucky. I don’t remember that one, but I remember Lucky’s energy that transferred some of the recklessness to my small child’s body. I had a long, colorful Colombian skirt, del traje tipico, that someone had brought for me, but it was much too big – an adult size. I loved to play dress up with it, but soon, I discovered that it could serve as a circus act with Lucky. Playfully, I would slither the rust-colored skirt in front of Lucky who would then gleefully bite at it, clenching his teeth over the soft cotton fabric, until I began swinging the skirt, and the attached Lucky, around and around until the imaginary crowed roared with laughter at the sight of Lucky the Flying Dog! He was the last dog I had while I was still living in that Westchester home.

After that we moved to an apartment, so it was no more dogs for me – until we moved temporarily to a small townhome in another section of town. That’s when my two “little” cousins, C + J, decided to give me a little black blur that they named Tomate. I don’t think that ended up his real name, but it’s the only one I remember. Tomate came to us at a time we were renting, and we never informed the owner of our newest acquisition. He was a feisty puppy, with energy slightly lower than Lucky’s, but a lovable one nonetheless. Then, one day, our landlady found out about Tomate, and we had to part ways with him.

All the dogs of my childhood had to be given up. I never had to go through the death of a dog because they were never around long enough. Most of the times, they had to be given up because we moved; but sometimes, they just had to be given up because. I wonder many times what happened to them – comforters of my childhood, friends in my need of time (which, as a child with an over-active imagination and strict parents, they’re many!).