American Filipina

Our memories are all we have left at the end of the day.   All my life I have been a collector of memories, pictures, and stories.   I think my biggest fear is forgetting these things because they are the basis of what forms us.   Alzheimer’s runs in the family.   I know it has not hit everyone in their old age, but chances are fifty-fifty.   This brings me to think that I have to keep writing as much as I can down before I forget. One day, I hope my children will read the thoughts that contained me.   I want them to know the feelings I lived so that they may remember I existed as a whole being once.   I want them to know that I spent my life always seeking inspiration and enlightenment and was always happy in my space, but never settling for stillness.   I want them to know how proud I already am of them, even if they are only small people now. If I were to ever look back on what it was that I stood for, it would be that my family and friends would the basis of why I did everything.  

Like petals on the forest floor not abandoned and left to be forgotten but with a mission to nurture the earth with my blossoms that are leaving one cycle to enter another my mission can not be complete without the passage of time some drops of rain and the seeds I left in the ground seasons passed that hold the memory of my genetic make-up to become again a flower to take in the sun to give back in all it's glory a bouquet more complete than the last.

Connected and focused Rhythm and rhyme Circle in completeness Irrelevant is time Light effervescent or strained in bind

Clay from earth old as time Many forms created and destroyed Once served a purpose to line palaces of great men Now lies still in tattered erosion Awaiting to evolve to a stone chair

A single baby sock lies lost looking for its long lost pair boots stomped and disheveled dresses from hide and go seek games decorate the chaos Attempts at organization abandoned many times categories discerning just barely Dry cleaning still in plastic bags outdated suits impulsive buys What was I thinking to relive those days of sexy tops and stiletto heels and gorgeous jackets and gourmet meals? Efficient clothing to survive poor laundry care no room for husband's clothes Again, where is that other pair? Items of occasion Halloween Christmas Just in case, re-gifting stash Clothes of casual crammed elsewhere an after thought Items I can not part with grandma's scarf and countless graduation gowns Wedding dress still with sand fall sprinkling the floor like salt beneath my feet Shoes I have fallen in and out of love with and eyes of a child peek behind waiting to be found sock still lost in that unknown abyss that speaks volume

Who doesn't love eggs?  I mean so many of us, believe it or not, are defined by the way we like our eggs.  Think about it.  What kind of eggs did you grow up with?  We always had a giant plate of eggs on the table when I was growing up.  Mostly they were fried eggs.  Sometimes they were eggs scrambled in egg plant.  Sometimes they were scrambled hard with tomatoes and onions.  No matter what day at my parents house, you could almost always guarantee, there are going to be eggs on the table. The first thing I ever learned to cook was an egg.  I stood on a chair with my grandmother supervising and I carefully flipped over an egg.  Fried it and ate it.  I was empowered.  I can cook something by myself.  I thought that if I only knew this one skill, how to cook an egg - I would never starve.  Looking back, I did not think about how I would probably have high cholesterol.  Who thinks of that as an eight-year old? I  moved out on my own.  I had to cook my own eggs.  There was no escap