SITTING alone in the kitchen one early morning, I happened to chance upon the old refrigerator in the corner. Only for the first time (in a very long while) have I looked again closely at the many notes, pins, and assorted magnets literally covering its doors.
I admit, I must’ve opened and closed them numerous times during each day, but still, I have hardly paused to take notice of all the decorations we’ve placed there many a time, most often with little or not so much of a ceremony.
The only occasions, of course, would be when we would look for available space to put a new magnet, which my mate or I may have acquired during a trip. Or during a few instances when a friend would gift us with one to add to our collection.
But needless to say, even the smallest buttons, each have little stories to tell. The names of the small towns and cities, either painted or etched on each magnet, obviously speak for themselves.
My mate, in her travels and studies, has collected quite a number, compared to a trickle of my own. What’s important, all of these keepsakes are intended solely for our aging ref, as though they were each a token of endearment or “pasalubong” for someone special.
So, there on the main and freezer door could be found magnets of various Lumad designs from known and obscure places in Luzon, Visayas, and Mindanao.
They are then randomly mixed with European and Asian cities and exotic spots and finally sprinkled with university seals, wedding and baptism memorabilia, and others which one can file under miscellaneous.
However, these magnets aren’t the only valuable items dressing up our ref doors. Behind each could be found notes upon notes of faded messages.
These range from love notes, which our son rudely made during his short schooling in Oz in particular, up to faded photocopies of my late mom’s newspaper column and food order slips which, we’ve decided, should be saved and not be forgotten.
In all, just one long hard look at that old refrigerator and you’ll right away discover a ton of tales just waiting to be unraveled.
Hardly now at 71 can I, at a glance, capture a bird’s-eye view of many memorable moments I and my fam had witnessed through the years.
Surely never as conveniently as when I would, once again, glance at that old ref and its ashen-grey doors. A solemn promise, I’d look more kindly at the silent witness just sitting patiently by a corner of our tiny kitchen.
