Trees. Branches. Roots.

A few days ago, I attended an informal two-day reunion with my childhood friends and playmates. It's been roughly 11 years since we all spent time together and well, it's something I guess we all missed. Even me. Especially me. Growing up in the same apartment compound, we were pretty tight-knit given that we all belonged to the same general demographic of middle-class tagalog speaking families with kids born in the eighties and raised in the nineties. Over some coffee, a few beers and some Gilbey's Premium Strength we went through the ups and downs of that collective childhood and took in every single second of nostalgia that was to come for those two days. We shared awkward stories, went on about the kid who'd pee in the flowerpots every morning, how Hubert was left behind once and had nowhere else to go only to stay at our unit for the afternoon. Lots of stuff. The "communal baths" behind the inside units, the secrets to opening the gate from the outside and how I was trapped in my house most of the time, kept under lock and key. We vividly remember the games we played, the dumb shit we did and yeah, the Benz and the vintage car too. The fact that I used to run around biting people like a vampire on crystal meth while being chased by our house help was particularly hilarious.

As different as we all are from each other right now apart from how far we are along the courses of our individual lives, we're all still branches from that same Barrio Obrero tree. Wherever we may choose to spread, it's in these common roots that we all started. Distanced as I am, I could still say I was there; that I had a stake in these people's memories. I'm proud to say I was part of something. I'm proud to say I was part of this.

Til next time, kids. You have no idea how this moved me. Thanks, everyone. For being there for that particular part of my life. You're still always there somehow.