Gelyka Dumaraos “Homebound” is a part of my Postcards from Childhood Series, a three-part word series that is both memory and offering. It’s a return to the child I once knew, and to the hands and moments that raised me.
On a bus going to Pangasinan,
the non-aircon ride is loud—
passengers talking, a child crying,
a man watching on his phone with speakers on.
You can’t hear the sound on the TV,
only the flicker of scenes,
the climax of an old, forgotten
Filipino action movie.
There I was, on the window seat,
my mom beside me, sleeping soundly.
I sat in silence, watching the couple
on a tricycle as they passed us by.
A fenced field stretched in the background,
patches browned, almost barren.
The three o’clock sun spilled its streaks of light,
a sting of heat against the skin—
but it was fine.
It’s not every day that I get to feel
all the senses come alive.
Going home to Burgos
has always been a tangle of emotions:
excitement, melancholy,
a trace of pain, and a little hope.
Ah, to return to the place I grew up,
only to arrive at an almost empty house—
no hugs, no hellos,
just frames of departed loved ones
welcoming us in the old living room.
And yet, it still feels like home.
Because presence lingers,
and love does not leave.
It is a comfort I will always return to—
a mix of emotions,
just like the beautiful chaos
of a long bus ride home.
