I was probably born a little too late to think about going out in the streets to witness the real events during the dying days of the Martial Law in the Philippines. Somehow, every once in a while, I see flashes of images and hear echoes of memories growing up in a farm as a wee little kid who by then have yet to learn to write my name without knowing the letters of the alphabet.
When my mind started to sprout wings I began to question the stories that I remember I heard from both my parents but of no value then more than a story told to make me fall asleep. Indeed the bedtime stories I heard weren't that of Aesop's or tales and legends of magic and fantasy but that of reasons. Reasons why my brother cannot come home on weekends when he was still studying at the university in the city, reasons why my sister was sent to live with our grandmother in another province when she entered college.
The sound of the radio brings a lot of memories to me. Memories I don't even own but felt as if I was a part of the time... (to be continued)
