Narrative Essay: Haunted by Memories

Haunted by Memories

Most people turn to their memories to seek comfort or find solace from their nightmarish present. Fairy tale characters use to find refuge in their memories, like Snow White daydreaming about her times in the palace before she got stuck with the Seven Dwarfs in their humble home, or when Cinderella thinks back to when her father was still alive and her stepmother and stepsiblings weren’t in the picture yet. Many turn to reminisce to the good old days; most hold on to fond memories of their childhood. Unlike most, I turn back time to go back down memory lane only to find myself seeing the bad times so clearly and the good times usually blurred over by the former. I’ve always yearned to be like most other people, but I guess nightmares overweigh the dreams I might have had. Memories of regret, lost chances, and grave loss haunt me every time I try to probe back to my “remember when’s”; I am dogged by these nightmares I might just never shake off.

BACK IN FIRST YEAR, I was assigned to sit next to this girl. She had a simple heart-shaped face, with the usual ‘chinky’ eyes and unremarkable nose. She had freckles across her cheeks and was of a fairly typical cream-colored complexion. She was ordinary, possessed and had nothing to make you turn your head twice to take peeks at her, certainly nothing compared to my previous girl friends. She faired averagely in class, acted as someone who could have been drowned in a crowd of people without any reason to stand out; but what got me pretty much glued was her innocence. Her sense of the world was still hills of flowers and butterflies while the rest of us freshmen had ideas of how the world is a dangerous place. That there are, present in every dark corner and alleyway, people waiting to rob and assault. I guess her naivety attracted me, beckoned me to tease her, and to expose her to the real world where hurt and sorrow and actual pain exists. She was too much and too easy of a temptation to resist. This much I know was the sole reason for my courting her then, well, maybe with a little actual infatuation, but other than that, all I only wanted was to add another name to my ‘past girlfriends’ list.
The courtship led to days and days and weeks and weeks of selfish fun. I caught myself spending time passing notes to her across our foot and a half distance from each other, setting up late night instant messaging conversations that lasted three to four hours on end, or talking about the silliest of things and always ending with the sweetest lines (note to future players: e.g. Good night, I’ll be dreaming of you, that’s for sure!). I did everything out of the old guide book to ‘getting girls fast for dummies’, and by the end of exactly the third month (and the book’s last chapter), I had her.
It was three months in courtship, and exactly a day before Valentines’. I arrived in school feeling quite confident. The sky shone marble gray with streaks of sunlight shining through the cracks of dreary clouds. The cold breeze blew in and out of the campus; everything just so welcomed me! This was just my day. Carrying my bag carelessly over my left shoulder and a bouquet of faint-pink tulips nestled on my right arm, I made my way into the classroom. Nobody was inside, so far so good. I planted the bouquet right by her chair, which was first of her row beside the left wall. On her table I placed a pink-colored envelope with her name printed on it, and a single rose tied with a black ribbon over it. It was a little before the first bell when she finally arrived and discovered the surprise. I asked her for an answer to be given the next day. She said she would think about it, with an obvious pleased smile on her face. Done deal.
Valentines’ Day. The sky was clear that morning, sunny but not too hot. From the way she looked at me, I knew her answer there and then.
The day proceeded great. During one of the breaks, I placed another bouquet of tulips by the seat across the end of the room, the first seat by the right wall. This new bouquet was meant for someone else. I’d decided that since she was a done deal even before I started, I’d try a two-time trick this time.
While I was courting her, I was working two shifts as well. During breaks, I’d sneak out of the room and have a snack or two, even lunch, with this other girl across the room. This girl was cute; actually, she was my girlfriend back in third grade. Our relationship then was sweet but short-lived, I guess I never knew what led to our drifting apart. This time, I tried another shot at us.
Everything was working out well, until ‘naïve girl 1’ saw the bouquet by the right wall after dismissal. She saw the handwriting on the little envelope that was stuck to the base of the bouquet; she knew it was mine. Apparently, she knew my handwriting by heart. It was a stupid and insensitive move I did, I now realize, for after that, she refused to talk to me again. Only after a year did we talk and engage in friendly conversation. It was stupid of me, since the night after the discovery, I talked to our middleman, a mutual friend, who told me that her answer was supposed to be YES, and that I was mean and rude to have played her all along. My relationship with the girl suffered for a year or two. I knew the consequences, and I had to face them. I was a jerk for doing what I did.

If I could only turn back time, I would. Now, four years after, I realize just how painful love can leave us limping. I imagine she does not trust any guy with her heart anymore. I now only realize the gravity of my mistake, of how much I’ve hurt her, harmed her even. That point of having actually damaged someone’s life has haunted me in all my relationships that followed, leading me to end most of them to make sure I won’t hurt another one again.

IT WAS RAINING. The sky looked on as if to foretell my misfortune that day. I stood in line awaiting the free bus driving customers to Taiwan’s leading department stores/super market chain. The clothes I wore were a bit too thin for the cold weather, good thing I brought my umbrella with me. I intended it for the sun; I never saw that it was to rain hard that day. I would’ve cursed the rain if it only hadn’t brought about the incident I am now writing of next.
The ground felt rough even under my rubber shoes, rubble filling in gaps of my shoes’ rubber footing; the chill that surrounded everyone only suited my preference for the cold. My walkman phone kept playing in my ears against the howl of the great wind, and I was waiting. The next bus would not come for another six minutes. I stood there, enjoying the cold and the shelter I got from my umbrella keeping out the raindrops from ruining my shirt, pants and giving me a cold. Thirty seconds passed.
I saw a slight commotion up the front of the line. A girl about my age was asking those behind her if she could go under their umbrella; nobody minded her. She looked cute with her slightly damp hair running down the back of her jacket and some sticking to her cheeks. She was a good four or five steps away from me when I extended my arm with the umbrella, inviting her to go under it with me. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, a posy red peeping from the ivory white of her face. I could tell that she was quite well-off, wearing a cute outfit typical of the Tokyo-Taipei fusion of a leather jacket, a gray-green top and a decent enough checkered skirt. Her hair had strands of red highlights (or were they lowlights, I don’t know exactly what they are to be called) amidst her real black hair color and she had on long thin earrings that had those clear colored beads hanging from her ears. She thanked me in rushed Chinese and I answered a hurried ‘You’re welcome’, growing quite conscious of my own blushing cheeks. She went under my umbrella and started answering a text message she had just received. She pressed and thumbed her reply into the phone, and after a while, she looked at me, probably remembering that I was there, and gave me a shy smile. I smiled back.
As if by magic, I actually felt the minutes ticking by but during that time it was as if time was frozen altogether by the chill of the wind when, this I am certain of, our eyes met after those shy smiles. I will never know how long we stared or how brief we glanced at each other, I just felt it happening. I was about to ask her name when the bus, which I guess took its time then and just arrived to ruin the moment—my moment, our moment, came and we were lost in the muzzle of people getting in and out that followed. I never saw her in the bus. I was never sure if she took the same bus as I did for there was another one that came briefly after the first one did, but I never saw her again. I never got around to asking her name. Or her number.
I think it was a storm that hit us that day, but it was surely nothing compared to the storm in my heart as I rode silently to the store.

I could never believe I was that stupid to have let that chance slip under me. I now realize it was right there, ready for me to grab. Even if the crowd stirred because of the bus, I still should have exerted an effort to at least try and ask what I needed to know. Now, every time I see an opportunity I try to grab it right by the throat, as if trying in vain to grab the chance I once lost.

IT WAS NIGHT TIME and I remember having only finished half of what a math problem asked for when the call came.
My mother went to sit on the sofa chair by the phone, as she customarily does, and answered it. She was cheerful at first, as she usually is on telephone conversations with friends and relatives, but then grew quieter as the conversation took to its third or fourth minute. I sensed that it was unhappy news when my mother starting sobbing, silently at first until it grew fiercer as she rocked her body back and forth on the chair. I knew it was grave news. I knew too that it was news from family as she spoke in her childhood tongue—visayan—and started mentioning names I could vaguely remember to be that of her sister and some other simple words that I understand after years of having helpers from the south.
She spoke in hushed tones, as if under stress, to the whole of the family present in the living room, after her crying spell, long after she put down the receiver. “Ahia, Shoti, Shobe, Lolo is gone.” She called me Ahia. It is Chinese for Older brother, and so is Shoti for younger brother and Shobe for younger sister. She said these words so serene, so calm, as if her crying spell didn’t just happen seconds before she addressed us.
I felt tension in the air, as if something was about to break. My father sensed it too, for after hearing those words, he went over to the chair by the side of the phone, to where my mother sat, rigid and controlled, knelt down to her level, and hugged her tightly. My mother sobbed onto papa’s shoulder. After a moment’s silence, she once again composed herself and said matter-of-factly, “Ahia, papa and I are going to Cavite to see your Lolo. Make sure Shoti and Shobe are asleep within the hour. Remember to brush your teeth and go to the CR before going to bed. Bye.” She and pa went into the room to prepare mama’s purse and pick up papa’s wallet. They passed by and each placed kisses gently on all three of us. We packed our books back into our school bags, brushed our teeth, and went to bed. The night seemed darker that night.
I can never describe the way I went through my life after that. I lived through all of the routines without really living, eating the food set before me breakfast, lunch, and dinner without really tasting, and studying the lessons in class without really learning. Everything felt different. Now I realize I felt guilt. Guilty of never being there to visit Lolo. Guilty of never really loving Lolo. Guilty of never really knowing Lolo.
In his funeral, and even after his burial, I never cried. Never shed a tear for him. I never knew the reason why; I grieved, deep and honest down in my heart, but I never saw the need to cry, never felt the need to break down. I was the Ahia of my family, I must be strong, for I am strong…

The loss of Lolo always stuck to my mind, to the extent that every time I see my living grandparents in my father’s side, I try to channel the love and attention I should have given him to them. Always, I am hounded by thoughts of regret over the times I’ve wasted, feeling the cold breath of loss at the back of my neck, ready to pounce on me anytime. Never once do I stop and not think of the things I could’ve done for him, things we could’ve done together. I guess I thought he would be an ever-present entity in my life; that the thought of him dying was impossible and that I would always have time in the future to bond with him. I hope he could still see me from where he now is, looking on forgivingly at me, knowing that I’ve always loved him.

Memory can always be a book one can look over and read time and time again, after finding it worthwhile and quite remarkable. Sometimes though, memory can be a plague, a haunting, an unpleasant dream that haunts you, keeps you fighting, competing, and proving yourself to the world when everybody else tells you there is nothing to prove. It can also be a beast, prowling behind you, gnawing at your heart whenever you let your guard down and think back to your wrongs, to the things you could’ve done differently. It stalks, it waits, it haunts. Memory is a bittersweet thing; I guess it only depends on which things we look at that decides when it will start to hound us, and where we choose to look that matters.