this story originally appeared in the philippine daily inquirer on August 14, 1999.
The problem with working is that many people and places become a stranger to you. At home, my small cousins who used to adore me when I was still unemployed now cry when I try to carry them. Even our puppies don’t wag their tails too much when I get home. Okay, they still bark but only because they think I am a visitor or a thief maybe. Our chickens attack me when it is my turn to feed them on Sundays.
Redecoration is such a pain when I have to look for everything I need. I got mad once when the flashlight I wanted to use on a dark and stormy night was not inside my cabinet, where it is supposed to be.
Sometimes I have to answer the phone and it’s not on the table where it should be. I used to love cooking when the spices were still kept in the cupboard near the utensils. But since my sister is not yet working, she has all the time in the world to move things in the house, and I am not even talking about mother who is the world’s greatest cleanliness freak.
It’s not only me who suffers from their habit of moving things. My father, who has this ritual of praying before he leaves the house, got shocked when he saw that what used to be our altar has been converted into a display case for a Mickey Mouse poster. One time he tried to look at himself in the mirror and found out it was no longer on the wall.
I have been telling my mother and my sister to make the changes less dramatic so I can adjust to them easily. My sister would tell me I am just trying to stop her from developing her potential as an interior designer. But, hello! She’s a psychology graduate. Our discussions always end in a cold war, and I would get the silent treatment from my mother.
My room is no exception to all these changes. My undies travel from drawer one to drawer three, from drawer three to drawer two, and back to drawer one (luckily I have only three drawers). If they could only talk, they would probably complain about being dizzy from all the transferring. If they could walk, they would have already walked out of the drawer and gone on strike.
The worst thing happened when I slept late and I had to turn everything off. I switched the lights off, I turned off the fan and I removed the TV plug from the outlet. I then went to bed knowing that everything was in order, only to find out in the morning that I had actually pulled the plug to the aquarium and killed our two big, loving and cute pako fish. My family loved them so much, and caring for them was my father’s only hobby (I didn’t mention the car, which is his life). I killed the fish that kept mother company when my father, sister and I were out. I killed my sister’s best friend. I killed the only audience who could bear with my singing on the videoke. I killed the fish that grew from the size of a cup to a pitcher since the time we had them. I killed them because the house that I lived in for 23 years had suddenly become strange to me. I am guilty. And I hate redecoration.
