IT’S ALMOST 3 a.m. The street is dark and silent.
I hear my family stirring in the sala. Ever since I was a kid, we used to arrive earlier than everyone else, enjoying moments of calm before the people gathered. But not this year.
As we step into the heart of the churchyard, I bask in the familiarity of where I am. Suddenly, the streets are alive with festive parols clinging from posts and facades. Children’s laughter fills the air, blending with faint strains of Christmas carols.
I stand in front of the Christmas tree beside the parish. It’s probably my favorite part growing up as our family religiously completes the nine days of Simbang Gabi. Something about its tallness, the incandescent glow from its intricate ornaments and the bright yellow star on top brings me comfort.
Marveling in its glory reminds me of how I used to think the lights seemed to stretch to the heavens as if the lights were the stars themselves.
In some way, it stands there as a silent witness to my childhood days. It’s the only thing that remains the same every year – constant and unchanging.
The church is packed with faces, old and new. The air is thick with scents of sampaguita and melted wax. I sit in silence. As the choir begins to sing, I am taken back to simpler times.
I remember when my feet still couldn’t touch the floor, and how my eyes often wandered around the painted ceilings. I used to tug on my father’s shirt, eager to buy bibingka like all the other children. I was impatient like that, back when time didn’t pass, and Christmas felt like pure joy and anticipation.
The mass ends, and we head outside. I hold my mother’s hand, a habit I never outgrew especially during crowded evenings like this, as I pause to take it all in.
I have been here since I was a kid. And yet, for some reason, I feel as though I am somewhere else — somewhere I can never fully return to.
I look around, and my gaze is drawn back to the tree. Suddenly, I notice the star begin to flicker, though it never did before. F
