The Ever Present Past

There is this face of the Singapore weather that just seems so familiar I would dare give it a hug and shake its hand if given the chance.

The streets are wet, the skies are grey and lazy just keeps fading in and out of peoples faces. It has been raining on and off since yesterday and this morning's wind brings back memories of childhood. I close my eyes while waiting for the bus and a picture of a 12-year-old me sitting beside the front window of our humble old house in the Philippines fades in with soothing clarity. I look through the window and the heavy rain greets my eyes with anger that seem more comedic than fearsome. I listen and I hear the raindrops batter our ever dependaple rooftop and the sound seem more symphonic than noisy. I turn my head to the left and I see my little brother staring out the window as well, engaged at the swaying coconut trees on the other side of the road, inside Joey's front yard. I take a deep breath and I feel the storm and all its grandeur. And I smile, I can smell mother's sweet chocolate porrige. And I suffer.

I suffer because I can't go back to that place anymore, I won't feel the walls and rooftop fight valiantly to protect me, I will never see the storm cringe in frustration as it realizes its shameful weakness against our mighty little fortress. But I delight.

I delight in the memories, they are always here, they remain in my presence, vivid and untoucheable. They have transitioned into fact from legend. The past is ever present.