The Spirit of Return
by Francis Tabago
by Francis Tabago
Children, adults, and pets—it is almost everyone’s fate that after a fun-filled day outside, we all have to jam ourselves in different modes of moving metal boxes to get home, lest we walk, of course. Even then, some really wanna squeeze in that extra moment of being out and about to relish the day before it ends: for Ed, he’s gonna find someone to have sex with in his car to cure his lonesome; for Anne, she’s gonna walk slower so that she gets more time with her boyfriend who’s walking her home; for little Titay, she’s gonna run around the block and tire her human and pee all over the neighbors’ gutters before being caught.
Me? I’m looking at the random people on the street, guessing what kind of lives they’re living; and if I’m not guessing, I’m making them up, giving them names, backstories, flaws, and whatnot—it’s a fun habit. After coloring their pages in my eyes, I then turn to myself. Whether I’m on the train, jeepney, or on the back of Nicki or Luis’ car, I inevitably have to reflect on that day’s journey and the fact that it’s over and I have to go home.
“Ano nga ba ang Pasko?” I asked myself as I was looking at the moon one car ride home. The moon faces the earth, closing in; the tides rising as if reaching out, ready for a joyful reunion. Up until now, I ask myself this question because I find different answers each time, and then I let go of it and then come up with another next year. One younger year, it was just “a holiday I grew up celebrating and now, despite my ungodliness, I celebrate it as a mandatory day of the year where there is nothing but joy.” One dark year, it was then “a holiday burdening the coffers of my family that each year, the absolute excess makes me want to implode like that submarine.” Oh, that was an interesting one because I actually cried in hiding, thinking how my mother is happy and okay with all this spending and extra work when I’m out here worried, thinking the money could be better spent. This year, although there’s still a few weeks before Christmas, I already have a conclusion: Christmas is a holiday of returning. The holiday is situated near the end of the year, a mountainous albeit mundane journey that all go through, and of course, it’s the birth of Christ. Like the moon calling the tides and the children at play being called home, and like Ed, Anne, and little Titay, we are all called to return home inevitably. I can’t speak for everyone, but I can’t help but feel that those that don’t like the holiday are good examples of the spirit of return for it’s a call to a return that they can’t be in, in one form or another. Perhaps a return to modesty, away from excess; to prayer, to family, to friends, to hometown, or a return to goodness, forgiveness, kindness, and love.
I can’t change the circumstances. Some will still abhor Christmas, some won’t care, and some might not even celebrate it, and I think that’s fine. But the moment they long for a particular space, a particular someone, a particular something, Christmas is alive. And it’s calling us to come to the Christmas tree disguised as broken homes, happy families, your two friends, your mistress, and a loyal yellow aspin.
A pusakal (pusang kalye) aka puspin
Maligayang Pasko.