I saw River riding his little toy car, his good left hand gripping a red marker. With innocent excitement, he pressed the felt tip onto the immaculate white wall and signed his first canvas.
I have always wanted a clean house. My Nanay was a cleanliness fanatic — everything had a place because, as she always said, there is a place for everything. Folding clothes, keeping my closet neat, polishing surfaces — this discipline lived in me early.
To this day, the best breakfast I can have is the sight of a spotless kitchen sink and shining counter before I even take in the strong calming aroma of dark-roast Arabica espresso. I love the squeaky-clean floor under my feet. We have ceramic tiles now, but part of me still misses the tongue-and-groove wooden floors of my childhood.
That morning, I sat with my fourth — or fifth — cup of coffee; I can’t remember. What I do remember clearly is River prancing around the house in his foot-powered automobile, creating the most mesmerizing artwork with his kiddie imagination.
All six markers under his command, he filled the walls with lines and arcs, swirls and streaks — colorful as his imagination, colorful as the nostalgia rising in me.
I remembered our old house. Three planks of T&G floor missing, patched with half-inch plywood. On the wall hung a framed painting — a boat in stormy seas, sail rolled up against the violent wind. A masterpiece. The wood beneath it was painted many times over through the years — another kind of canvas.
Then River rolled to the opposite wall and kept scribbling, and suddenly I was thinking of Kuya.
Kuya Uro — eleven years older than me — also painted on our walls. Murals that stretched across seasons and moods. Musicians, mostly rock legends. Alice Cooper in the summer of ’77. KISS nearing Christmas. Queen in January ’78. The parade of faces continued until 1983, and by the time we left South Avenue, the paint on that bedroom wall was layered more than an inch thick. That much I remember.
Kuya Uro painted his whole life — living off a talent handed to him by the Lord Almighty, a gift meant to be nurtured and used for His glory.
A task he struggled to carry well.
And as River colored our once-pure walls, I felt no irritation — only gratitude. Life repeats in echoes. Some clean walls are meant to be painted. Some children are born to remind us of who we once were, and who we loved.
The house can always be repainted.
But this moment — this memory — will never return
Originally published on Benjie's Bench - Measuring Life's lessons in Millimeters