For two weeks now I've been going home at 9 p.m. In Sorsogon, this is already quite late: most of the stores close at 7 p.m., and by 8 the two main streets are literally asleep. Barring the times when I can bully the Papa into picking me up, my new-found friends (and former classmates) walk the quiet stretch to the terminal, where we each go our separate routes.
The evening walks have reacquainted me with the Sorsogon I knew: the Sorsogon I grew up in in the era of last-full shows and house calls. The moviehouses are now gone, but the end-of-the-day stillness remains.
The walks have also reacquainted me with the boys and girls I practically grew up with. This time, though, talk centers not so much on crushes and movies but on children and real lives. We talk of husbands and children, choices and how life turned out to be. We talk about what and who we are now, and how much we enjoy these walks. We talk about everything and nothing.
When this is all over, I know that I will miss going home at 9.