Home

Home. What is it really? For most of us, it is the roof over our heads and the walls around us and the family we have. My home is several different places that served witnesses to several milestones in my life. Most, if not all, I haven't set eyes on since I left them.

My first home was on a street called Sycamore. I remember the house number. I remember the house. There was a garden in front; it was elevated. I remember my brother falling from the elevated garden and being caught by the santan plants. The backyard was bigger, with walls in ruins. We could see through and over it. I remember the neighbors. As children we watched Bananas in Pajamas. And we found out that our neighbors were named after the three bears (Morgan, Amy, and Lulu). Looking back, I think they were messing with us nosy children. We had dogs. Lots of them. And a white cat called Molly. I don't remember why we left. I only knew we had to move.

My second home was on a street called Alabastro. I can't recall the house number. I know the house was big and was in the same village as the first. That house was huge for a kid like me. It seemed to have ghosts. When I stopped school for a year, my cousin and I had the house to ourselves. We played in our grandmother's room and wore her clothes and pranced about the room in three-inch heels. We had a big house and everything was good for a while. We met neighbors and friends who introduced me to some new things. I discovered boys there, too. We had a bahay-kubo in the backyard. It was a big backyard, which was home to chickens, quails, and dogs. But then things weren't so good. I changed schools that time, too. I don't know why we left that house, only that we had to move.

My third home could hardly be called a home. It was on a street called Sherwood. It had a small garden and a garage. But after the big house, we lost the car. Sold it, they said. I remember Molly dying. Our dogs bit her. She's an infertile, white cat who never gave us kittens. I grew up with her and Porky, our dog. Her death turned me into a cat-lover. Not long after, we got Spider, a half-Persian cat. I only remember that house through our pets. We had to leave our dogs behind. I don't recall much of our stay there. Only that we were to study in a new school, in a new city.

My fourth home was hardly a home nor was it a house like the one before it. It was a small room which saw through the beginnings of our life in a new city. It was a temporary arrangement. We didn't stay there long. We moved again, only this time we moved across the street.

My fifth home was a home on a street called Acacia. It was a witness to a lot of things. I grew up a little and saw another world. We had good neighbors and good friends. I learned to stay out late, and hold hands. I learned how to lie to get out of something. We lost Spider here, gained a few cats, and lost some of them again. I remember the house being flooded when a typhoon hit Manila. We stayed there for four years, maybe more. And then, we moved to a different house on the same part of the city.

My sixth home was a home on a street called Santol. This house doesn't exactly scream cozy and comfortable. But it is familiar, a witness to me really growing up and going to UP, another home of mine. We had Mito the dog here and Cat and Meow. Meow's the last pet standing, a temperamental, half-Siamese cat with no manners to greet visitors. We grew older here, spent years witnessing the birth of a younger set of cousins. The rooftop is a witness to a lot of friendships, some lost, some stronger, some hazy. We had to move again, this time because the owners are set to settling back here in gritty Manila.

My seventh home was the home of an aunt and her family. It was in the eastern side of the capital. It was far, and made us face a lot of difficult commutes home. Half the time though, I went home to someone else's arms. A place just as far as this seventh one. I did most of the packing. I've never been part of this process before. How adult is it to be confronted by sentimental thoughts while having to face a practical decision? And how unadult is it to not be a part of said practical decision? This change coincided with every other change that happened in my life after that summer of 2013. We stayed at this house for a year. And it was a witness to things we'd rather not talk about because not a lot of people would understand. Something happened again, which made us find a new home again.

My eighth home was back in the heart of Metro Manila. The same city I did most of my growing up. We moved back with another aunt and her family. Half the time, I spent my nights and weekends somewhere else, too. I learned that home can be a person of your choosing (and your home can leave you, too). We lost one of the pillars of our lives: Lolo. We miss him a lot. About a year ago, my aunt and her family moved out. For the first time ever, I live in a home where it's just me and my mom and my siblings. It's frustrating because I have to act like an adult all the time and do the cooking, the laundry, the cleaning. I hope being on our own would teach my siblings about taking responsibility.

My ninth home is a place of my choosing. It is on the 33rd floor of a building on a street named after a gemstone (or a prominent man, you can choose what to call it). It's been a month since I moved in. The first home where I got to decide what to furniture to get and how they are arranged. The first time I got to pay for my own rent, my bills. I still do the cooking and the laundry. And I still have to be responsible for a lot of things. But I chose this home and it was the best decision ever. I'm sure this won't be the last home I'll be moving my things into. For now, though, I'm exactly where I want to be.

They say home is where the heart is. And that seems to be true. No matter how many times I have moved around, I'm still surrounded by the same people who I hope in my heart do love me.