If it were only possible to scoop up all of the fondest memories of my Sundays with the family, I would file them into one boundless album and, like a cued video playlist, play each of them in my mind to make my rainy afternoons by the window less dreary.
As it has always been, the Sundays since our childhood have mostly been made up of festive family affairs where, back then, all the elders were still around and bustling lively about. Right from the earliest, starting at the old ancestral house along Ponciano Reyes street, to our present residence in Bajada (which eventually grew into a family compound), my parents and Aunt Nena had by then assumed the granny roles, as our beloved grandparents had already passed, and it was our children’s turn to rule the lawns. Still, our Sundays maintained their old magical air, with big lunches and gatherings made extra special by birthdays and other family celebrations.
Compound all these with the coming of great and great-great grandchildren, which overlapped our nephews’ and nieces’ domination in our parents’ hearts, and it was as if we had a fiesta every weekend. When it was their turn to go, the grandparent role naturally defaulted to us, but with a twist.
Our titles of “Kuya, Ate, Tito, and Tita” remained, as though all had yet to slide smoothly into the new setup. Nevertheless, it looked as though every generation appeared to take its turn at our own version of the parlor game, Trip to Jerusalem. Sometimes, during candid moments, I sadly look and realize only a few of us old guards remain, and the once-happy fort has slowly begun to look like Allende’s house of spirits.
Yet lo and behold, the coming of newborns is almost always so much like Sundays. While the latter are not considered the start of the week for nothing, our dear babies, as in all cultures, also signify continuity that we will endure. Beyond the realm of family, their significance extends far towards the global village, which shall eventually become their teacher.
Come to think of it, here’s what I wrote long ago of these adorable tiny feet:
… there is something poignant in a baby’s first steps. As they walk towards you, unsure and awkward (also cute) in their gait, with both determination and purpose shining through those little eyes, at the same time, tell-tale hints that, later in life, when they’ve grown, they’ll be walking away from you to lead a life all their own.
But back by the window, and I notice it’s still raining. Memories of Sundays gone by continue to filter in, along with outtakes of babies’ antics and the promise of pitter-patter of tiny feet in the years ahead. A thought comes to mind… when the time comes and we have all become but mere segments of their continuing memories, I wish they, too, would find time to see how rewarding it is to treasure their trove of Sundays.
