Christmas came in June

Before my mother passed away last year, one of her last wishes was for our modest house in Gulod to be renovated.

- BUM D. TENORIO, JR.

When we were ready for it, she was hospitalized. Fixing the roof and the ceiling, which were the first two phases of the repair, took a back seat. Attending to her welfare became our prime concern.

Nanay died in May 2023. Our humble home lost its light. Only then did I fully understand why mothers are called ilaw ng tahanan. Because no matter how bright the lights at home were, their glow was rendered dull when the home suddenly lost a mother.

Our house still ached for some fixing—and so did our hearts. My youngest brother Rod, with whom I share the house now, said the roof and the ceiling could still wait for their imminent repair until our mother’s babang luksa (first death anniversary). We neither had the strength nor the emotional preparedness to move things around the house, much more to touch Nanay’s room.

Two weeks after Nanay’s babang luksa, I woke up suddenly in the middle of the night with my bed soaked in rainwater. The water seeped from the roof to the ceiling; the ceiling almost caved in due to the heavy downpour. I dashed to my mother’s room, half-awake, to check on her. Only her stacks of dusters by her bedside greeted me.

If Nanay were still alive, she would be in charge of the renovation. She knew which contractor to tap, how many people were needed, where to source the materials. She did it after my father passed away in 2010.

It took a few more days before we could find a team of handymen who would do the repair. My brothers who have houses in the compound offered Rod and me shelter while the house was being fixed. Rod opted to stay home, never mind if he had to clean up the dust after a day’s work.

My spirit wanted to stay elsewhere.