I was reading an article yesterday entitled the same way and it evoked in me feelings of nostalgia. when i was a kid, i too wished that my house had an attic upstairs where there would be trunks full of memorabilia perhaps filled with sepia photographs of ancestors i will never know, love letters between relatives of long ago, newspaper clippings of famous blood kin and many more. but alas my childhood home was a one story place and the only thing you could consider as a "second" floor was one step away from the "ground" floor. yes there were old photographs but they were too badly damaged you couldnt see anything clearly. i came upon letters sparingly and they werent even that old because they were perhaps only 19 years older than me.
if reality was so shockingly disappointing, my imagination when i was a kid made up for it. in my head i would find an old baul inlaid with capiz and mysteriously sealed with an iron lock. one day i'd open it and inside see pictures of my lolo's dad, letters between my great grand father and his wife or even pictures of my half uncles and half lolo's when they were kids wearing perhaps ruffled shirts and breeches. it fascinates me to see remnants of history and see the lives of times i will never experience. these people are long lost to me and through these letters, old clothes and brown-colored photographs i get to know them and how they lived or thought. like stepping inside the life of someone else and experiencing something that is utterly foreign to you.
it a surprise to realize that reality isnt always disappointing. just like the adage says if life closes its doors upon you there is a window that will surely open. it was no one's fault that my house didnt have an attic filled with bauls. but my window of opportunity opened last sem break. my lolo, mother's side, as a birthday gift to my mom gave her the love letters shared between his father and mother. my great grandfather, apparently, wrote such lovely letters in english. he had an eloquence that surpasses many of the young men today. he had a gentlemanliness than Southridge only wishes to impart on its students. and a faith that was unmovable. my great grandmother on the other hand, wrote in Spanish because she as much more fluent. with my primary knowledge of the language i wasnt able to appreciate the letters as much but from the little translations my mom gave me i found out that she was an interna, living amongst nuns, and was a very pious and holy girl. she loved her step father a lot and adored her parents but even in the face of love she would defy them to marry my great grandfather. (perhaps this is where i get my romantic tendencies). their letters are like pages from a historical romantic novel. these people, although related to me by blood, are unknown to me and despite this there is a kinship i feel now that i've read their letters. their love story has stood the test of time enough that 80+ years after their courtship, a girl like me was touched by it.
10 SEC READ The gift of insults
3 years ago
