The old mango tree still stood at the edge of the rice fields, just behind the rusted fence of the house I hadn’t visited in fifteen years. Its branches, now thicker and gnarled with age, reached out like the open arms of a long-lost friend. Above it, the sky hung in that same shade of pale blue I remembered from my childhood, heavy with heat and the hum of life.
I stood there for a while, fingers curled around the iron gate, feeling the wind brush past me like a whisper. The scent was unmistakable—damp soil, sun-baked wood, and ripening fruit. It smelled like summers that never ended. Like scraped knees and dirty fingernails. Like laughter echoing off the water buffalo’s back.
The gate groaned as I pushed it open. The sound felt almost sacred. I walked slowly, letting the crunch of gravel under my feet fill the silence. The house loomed ahead—faded, peeling, and proud. The capiz windows still caught the light like they used to, sparkling as though nothing had changed.
But it was the tree I came for.
We used to call it “Bantay,” the guardian. Mama said it was older than her, older even than Lolo. Its roots dug so deep into the earth that they broke the concrete path leading to the back garden. As kids, we were sure it could talk if we listened closely enough. We whispered secrets into its bark, made promises with crossed fingers and hidden smiles beneath its shade.
There had been five of us: me, Kuya Jojo, little Dandan, Rosa, and Maribel from next door. Every afternoon, we gathered under Bantay, our feet dusty and our shirts clinging with sweat. We made up games, built forts from banana leaves, and climbed the tree like it was our stairway to heaven. Its branches were our lookout towers. From up there, we ruled our small world with loud voices and wild dreams.
I walked up to the trunk now, reaching out a hand to touch its bark. It was rougher than I remembered. Hardened. But still warm in the sun. Still real.
And just like that, I was ten again. I could hear the clatter of Maribel’s laughter, high and wild, the way she always laughed when Jojo fell out of the tree. I could smell the green mangoes Rosa used to pick for me, handing them down with a smug smile and a packet of rock salt we weren’t supposed to have. I could feel the swing rope in my hands—Papa’s voice behind me, telling me, “Higher, anak, you can do it!”
The scar on my elbow throbbed faintly, as if the memory itself had weight. I got that falling from the middle branch—trying to prove I could reach the top like Kuya. I cried more from embarrassment than pain, and Rosa was the first to run over. She held my hand all the way to the kitchen, where Mama cleaned the wound and clicked her tongue, saying, “Ay naku, you boys never listen.”
Mama’s voice. It felt so close, so alive in this place. I swallowed hard.
The tire swing was gone. The rope too. Just a frayed knot remained, high above, swaying gently in the breeze.
I sat down at the base of the tree, letting my back rest against its trunk. My hands brushed aside some leaves, revealing the faint carvings we once made—initials, arrows, crooked hearts. D.D. + R.G. was still there. Deep, stubborn. Just like the feeling.
We had grown up. Moved away. Some of us had married, had children of our own. Some of us had drifted. Some had passed. But here, in this patch of sunlight and memory, we were still barefoot kids under a mango tree, dreaming too loud and laughing too much.
I closed my eyes.
And for a moment—just one brief, golden moment—I was home.