atychiphobe

Lola’s House
When I was very young, we’d go to my grandmother’s house every weekend. It was a big estate two hours drive away, in that part of Antipolo where the houses meet the mountains. I always got bored during the drive to grandmother’s house. My parents would be in the front, mother driving, dad in the seat beside, and they’d be talking about my mom’s business, or some case my dad was working on.
What my parents talked about never interested me. I’d stretch out at the back of the car and watch the clouds out the window, wondering whether they were fuzzy and soft like the ceiling of the car over my face.
Grandmother was my mother’s mother. She was in her eighties. I remember I liked her house because it was large, with wooden floors and wooden ceilings and the panels on the walls and the smooth faces of the furniture were all dark and heavy with the scent of varnish. There was a lady who cooked and cleaned for her, but besides that my grandm