It was a bleak Sunday afternoon. I was
driving my old Suzuki Samurai
home after visiting our farm.
I decided to take a new route to the City
where I live. This new route was opened just several weeks ago to the
driving public to cut their travel time in half. This road will pass three
towns instead of the usual six towns that you have to travel before reaching
the City. I was already driving on the
second town along the seacoast
when I saw this old remains of a Spanish stone house on a hill. I have already
passed by it when something in me made me stop, reversed gear and
backed up towards the foot of the hill, got out of my vehicle, and begun to
ascend the stone stairs leading to the top of the hill where the old and broken
down Spanish stone house was located. I was all the while reasoning with
myself why the heck I am doing this , but a force I just could not explain
made me continue ascending the stone stairs until I realized I was already
standing on what was supposed to have been the veranda of the house which
were now a pile of moss and foliage of wild plants sorrounded by cracked ballusters with several
stone pillars jutting out to the darkening sky. I begun hearing voices speaking
a language that I understand as I was good in my Spanish class. My mind
was now going back and forth, trying its darn best to separate
my imagined visualization from reality , as the moss
covered remains of the Spanish house
begun its transformation to a palatial house replete in the splendor of the
Spanish era tradition with huge chandeliers adorning the wide receiving room
and a gilded staircase winding towards the second floor. A lady garbed in
Spanish time clothing and whose beauty I seemed to connect in some distant
past appeared on the second floor and was now rushing down the stairway
with open arms as if to meet and welcome me. Instinctively, I also raised my
hands in anticipation that we will hug each other, when a sudden tap on my
shoulders erased my imagined visualization of sorts. I turned around to find
an old man, who introduced himself as the caretaker of the abandoned
property. Dazed and
confused I asked him questions about the house. He told me that many many years
ago, the owner, a married but childless Spanish mestiza whose
name was
Angelina committed suicide after her husband whom she loves so much
left her to live with another woman. Before she killed herself, she left a letter giving this property to the
town government, on the condition that the house should never be
touched and should be left alone to face and succumb to the
elements of time, as a testimony to her grief.
I thanked him for the story and was about to leave when out of the blue, I asked him if
who was the name of her husband. He told me that the name of her husband was
Eduardo. Dumbfounded and feeling very cold, I went back to my
vehicle and drove home. Even now as I write this story, I can
feel the coldness that I felt then.