Of fruitcakes and forget

I remember my mother the most not on Mother’s Day or her birthday. I always remember her the most when Christmastime comes along.

The Christmas season always began early when I was a kid. It wasn’t because I grew up in an overzealous environment where the coming of September meant that it was okay to start decking the halls with balls of holly (for the record, the decorating would only begin in late November or early December).

Christmas came early because by September, the house would begin to smell like Christmas thanks to my mom’s fruitcake. She’d bake batches and batches of fruitcake for Christmas. She’d bake at least ten at a time; not for giving away, but to sell to people who were awful enough to consider fruitcake a thoughtful Christmas gift.

That was ten years ago, back when my mom was behind a rather successful home-based cake business. Back then, Christmas meant picking up a toy or two (and if you were lucky, three), forcing yourself to stay up until midnight (because you wanted to, not because you had to), and watching an animated movie while you waited for Noche Buena.

Christmas hasn’t been the same since my mother passed away seven years ago. Mama died in 2005 after a three-year long fight against cancer.

It’s funny because  “seven years ago” doesn’t feel like seven years ago. Sometimes, it feels like it happened yesterday. There are also days when 2005 feels like lifetimes ago.

Missing someone dear to you is a 24/7 commitment—it never goes away. It lingers and it pierces deep. But it’s during the Holidays (and Mother’s Day as well) that I especially feel her absence (or as my Philosophy professor would put it, the presence of her absence).

Maybe it’s because I miss a time when “which Polly Pocket set is better?” was the biggest thing I had to worry about. I guess it also has something to do with the warm and fuzzy memories that the scent of freshly baked fruitcake conjures up.

I find it funny when people ask me how long it took for me to “get over” Mama’s passing. Here’s a little secret: you never really forget, but you survive. You survive because life goes on, even if my mama’s passing has left a huge, gaping hole in my heart.

There are days when my heart breaks apart (again and again and again) when I’m reminded that I don’t have a mom to turn to anymore. During her wake, I remember freaking out when I suddenly realized that wouldn’t be there to witness my high school graduation, first day of college, college graduation and… my very first prom (in retrospect, maybe it was a good thing that Mama wasn’t alive to see that. Hi mom!).

Nearly two years ago, a friend of mine wrote about having only five distinct memories of her father who passed away when she was three.  My gut reaction was to feel sorry for her because forget, for me, was the worst thing in the world.

Then I realized that in the seven years since mama passed away, I’ve forgotten quite a lot about her. I’ve forgotten the sound of her voice, where her dimple was, what her favorite outfit looked like, or the many things she told me about life.

It was then that I realized that sometimes, forget can be a good thing. Having a lot of memories can be a handicap—you get tied down to something that will never happen again, no matter how hard you try.

In contrast to my friend, I’ve had a long time to create memories of my mom. So many, in fact, I’ve since learned to curate them.

I will probably never forget the smell of freshly baked fruitcakes, the night Mama told me she had cancer, the fact that her favorite Pokemon was Eevee, and the night she told me it was time to let go; that same night, she taught me how to be a strong person.

I curate my memories because I’d rather cling to the ones that make me feel the closest to my Mama and let the other ones slip away. I guess that’s what makes the Holidays and Mother’s Day special too—it’s when those curated memories feel the freshest.

(Revised from a blog entry posted on December 25, 2011) 

“And if you wanna leave, take good care.”

I miss the first Skins generation. 

Once upon a time, I was Superman. 

I normally hate seeing and sharing photos like this on my social media feeds, but this one is too cute.

My younger brother and I have a four-year gap between us. Some would think that four years would be too wide a gap, but it was perfect. I was old enough to be a legit “elder” to Mikey but young enough to have been his playmate for most of his early childhood. 

Back when my little brother was actually little, I’d lift him up using my legs and arms (we called it the “Superman”; I’m not sure what other people call it).

The rest of our free time was devoted to wrestling matches (I used to always win. But then Mikey turned 6), excursions around our house (the house would magically turn into a vast ocean, a jungle, and whatever else our young minds could come up with), and bahay-bahayan. 

It’s funny because five years ago, I didn’t think those lazy afternoons we spent building forts in our living room and running around our front yard would mean so much later in life. 

Now my brother’s about to enter college (ZOMG GASPS GASPS) and I’ve officially been working for a year already; there’s no way in hell I’d be able to “Superman” him anymore, nor would it seem proper for us to build a fort in our living room (OR SO YOU THINK).

But memories like these are the ones to cling on to when the worst kind of nostalgia hits—and by that, I mean the kind that makes you want to go back to a time when scraped knees were the only things that bothered you. 

Who run the world? Journos.

Forget That Survey. Here’s Why Journalism Is The Best Job Ever.

My favorite:

You get paid to read a ton. Pretty much every journalist I know starts his day the same way: with a big cup of coffee and the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, the New York Post and a dozen or so blogs, either directly or filtered through Twitter, LinkedIn, etc. I’m sure a lot of people with real jobs start their days the same way, but most of them have to do it before they get to work. Suckers.

Hi, journalism. I miss you.