The saying “A picture is worth a thousand words” is never truer than when it comes to “heirloom” family photos, lovingly saved and handed down to succeeding generations.
The first time I realized how much of a fashionista my mother had been was when my baptismal dress turned up sometime in my married life. Nothing I had
If my husband had his way, he’d probably live in a vacuum. How many times have I come home to an airless home—windows, glass doors shut, no air-con on, not even the fan, and he’s sound asleep on the couch, hugging his guitar as though it were a soft pillow, breathing in the same carbon dioxide he breathes out.
I married a wonderful man, and our relationship is envied by many. He is God-fearing, a good son and brother, great father, a good provider.
“Towel!” my husband cries out. Uh-oh, I must have forgotten to replace the his-and-hers towels I had removed after showering last night. How easily I forget tasks when I put them off for later, especially tasks not normally assigned me, such as this one, which falls on my kasambahay Lani, who happens to be on vacation.
It was 1952. We had gotten secretly married—not in court, but in Ermita church, in front of an honest-to goodness Capuchin priest.
Twenty years ago, I devised a way to get rid of an eight-year-relationship that my mom objected to. She was my high-school girlfriend, smart and pretty, but from a lower income status, and whose parents were nobodies in the social circle I grew up in.
I began an intimate relationship with an office mate of mine six years ago. I was single at the time, but he was already engaged to his girlfriend of two years. The two of us together was out of the question. He’s Chinese and I am Pinay. He said if only things were different, he could be with me.
I first met my wife when her own firm and the company I worked with started to do business together. I married her a year and a half later.
Romance chooses no occasion—especially not for us old fogies. We neither wait for it nor worry about it; it happens when it happens. In fact, this Valentine’s Day we had resigned ourselves, quite happily, to waking up with my five-year-old granddaughter Mona asleep between us.
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