The Peach House

I have lived in the this place called Royal Road for twenty three years of my life now. And I've been living a lie for twenty three years. Since we are situated at a dead end of an "esquenita", which literally means narrow street, turning left the first corner of Royal Road, we are not technically on Royal Road. Nevertheless, our house is very much accessible to the main road and one of the most well-known highways here in the Philippines, EDSA. We are near the public market, a hospital, a ginormous building depot, the mall, you name it. It is even more accesssible to friends who would like to pleasure themselves with a little karaoke singing and a few rounds of beer, although I myself refuse to drink most of the time.
This particular evening, our humble abode was visited by four of my officemates. One guy and two girls. We're originally more than our count tonight, but one by one, the people who can't come sent a text message telling horrible excuses for us to spare them the guilt torture tomorrow. So, we just sang our hearts out like all the groups were expected to do here. And as soon as they came, they got to leave because we still all do have to go to work tomorrow.
This particular group was no more special than any other groups that have been here. I'm sure many of the guys belonging to a particular group would greatly react to this anti-discrimination statement, but I'm just trying to make a point so I hope this is no biggie. I have had different set of friends come in here, enjoying ourselves in different ways we knew and taught with in our generation. We drank body shots, bathe in the rain, laughed until we drop in the cold pavement of the driveway, name it, and I'm sure we already done it at somepoint. I just thought of the people who come here. Officemates and mates alone. Most do really stick and frequent here but there are those who haven't gone back. I'm sure if they'd have a chance they'd be back here. But there are certain factors or situations we might be having for us not to come back to a certain place. For some reason, you don't go at the same office anymore, or you haven't seen each other since the last time, or it's become too distant for you to reach out, or you feel that you're not invited at all, for whatever reason, sometimes you choose not to go back anymore. I think of all the faces that had gone by. By the brown french doors, by the red gate, used the red restroom, dined in the round dinner table with the lazy suzie, drank ice cold water from the freezer, half slept in my soft comfy bed or the hard rubber-tiled floor, or watched movies in the purple sofa and striped sala. Faces of which that passed by this house. Faces of which whom would pass by my life.
I was wondering if in years time, who will be able to stay or come back within these walls. Or who would never again. Or if I would have to leave the country for better opportunities, would this house still have it's usual sojourning jovial occupants? Would still there be laughter? Or would it just be the echoes of the past parties and confrontations and birthday celebrations and heart breaks that would linger the dust filled still newly painted living room in years time? It saddens me with just the thought of it. But I know there will be moments like these, because there are actually moments happening like these. One of the reasons why I don;t want people to go and beg them to stay just a little bit longer are moments like these. Moments when the crowd just left, and I am alone again staring at the closed gates under the bright Christmas lights under the manggo tree against the darkness of the night sky and the brightness of the full moon. These are the moments when I feel emptied again, just me and the house again. And inside these striped walls lie my soft cries of longing and quick movie watching just before I go to sleep. They carry with them my deepest secrets and weaknesses of being forgotten.
And sometimes, when I was about to close the brown french doors and the bright Christmas lights under the manggo tree, I think to myself how the usual soujourning occupants may or may not forget about me. It saddens me to think that there is a big chance that I might drift away with their memories, along with their growing up, their uprising time consuming careers and their family issues, name it. It saddens me by just the thought of it, that I might really be just the boy who lived in the big peach house with the red gates at the end of the first "esquenita" of the first turn of Royal Road. Just the boy with the karaoke machine.