Arcenas 1

Alexandra Arcenas

Mr. Cadra

LA II, Period 6

January 14, 2019

Grandfather’s Kingdom

My heart is like both my choices for a querencia, slowly deteriorating. I did not consider

many places, though I have been on quite a few plane rides overseas and road trips on vast

highways. There are two places that absolutely fill my heart with memories and remind me of

our traditions. When I think about it more and more, it is harder to pick one. Both settings are

very different but are tied to the same people whom I love so dearly. It hurts to know that I might

not have either of them when I grow old. Time passes so agonizingly fast it is terrible to think

that sometimes I want the days to flash by, but I suppose that I should choose the one that I will

lose first. So be it, and this one makes for a better story anyway...

A dizzying, nauseous sixteen hour and four-minute flight, a forty-five-minute boat ride

from the mainland in windy waters and murky skies, a ten-minute walk up some rickety stairs

made out of cracked bricks, and I am there. My future kingdom. I reach the top of the hill and

run to him. I call out to my grandpa, and my arms wrap around him. His dark shadow casts down

on me and as I look up at him, a cigarette hangs from his mouth, and he kisses me hello. I

breathe in and out. Every breath deeper than the last. The scent of smoke, humidity, and green

wraps itself in a twisted spiral floating through the air, drifting along. So, every time I set foot in

the Philippines I take a deep breath through the nose letting the same scent settle in. God, I love

that smell. My grandfather’s face stretches out into a grin. “The Queen has arrived” he greets me

and I follow him with a smile into the white cottage-like house. I trip over the small step that
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starts the hallway and he warns me only after the fact. He shows me to my room, and I unpack

my things quickly. Now, I run.

I run to wherever my feet will take me - around the house, through the trees, in the water,

and finally I stop in front of the grand tree that sits right off the hill. The branches and leaves

have the best view overlooking the water that crashes delicately into the rocky land like a child’s

wind up doll walking repeatedly into a white wall. As my eyes climb up the tree it reaches the

prize that was built within. The wooden treehouse. My treehouse. I am scared to ascend the stairs

that my grandfather has built for me. Scared that it might break, and leave me falling through the

thick branches that could pierce me if I do not hit the hard, dirt covered ground or land in the

liquid unknown that could use its waves like arms to restrain me under the surface, but I still put

my hand on the rail. I feel the pricks of wood poking into my palm, yet I don’t mind. My hand

slides up the rail picking up more minor splinters, as my feet take one step at a time. I grip the

raw, timber banister tightly, when a step creaks and squeaks. Each time my weight adds to the

stairs, my knuckles grow white from my hold on the handrail. Just a few more steps till I reach

the house. I always look up, not down. Never. Ever. Down.

I dust off my hands to remove the collection of pricks that have accumulated in my

fingers and palms. I walk steadily and slowly as I absorb this structure. There are spider webs in

the corner of the walls, dust cakes the table, and yet light shines through the windows making it

all vanish. My body is drawn toward the light that comes from the window. When I peer out, all I

see is mine - my land, my people, my treehouse, and my grandfather. He orders the people

around, making sure everything is taken care of. He wears simple clothes for such a complex

man - some ripped khaki shorts, white undershirt stained with paint, and an unbuttoned mechanic

shirt with his name embroidered on the front pocket that hangs loosely around him. I watch the
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“katulong” (the helpers) down below doing their chores of the land. Grandpa walks with such

authority amongst them. On this land and the next, his way is the right way. The native language

fills the air and travels up the leaves and dances in my ears. I don’t understand, but I listen

carefully as I switch to the ocean. I see the outline of the mainland, and my sigh expands into the

empty space, along with the sounds of the ground. How nice it is to be away from the street

people and the tricycles. Instead, I am with my kingdom’s people who will look to me for

guidance and payment to take care of their families.

I stay in the treehouse for hours till the sun starts to set. I just look out the window and

watch the people walk with planks of wood, baskets filled with palm tree leaves, and a tied up

carabao. My time in the tree house has come to an end. Grandpa calls me in for dinner. I say

goodbye for now. I rush down the stairs, with no haste in my step. He herds me inside the house

to eat whatever the katulong has made that night. We eat together, silently. I am sometimes

awkward with my grandpa because he is hard to read, but we do not need to talk because I know

what he needs. He needs to be needed, and I do not want to ever disappoint him. I am his queen.

His heir to all of this. All he has given to me is so valuable that the only way I can repay him is

to love him unconditionally. And by God, I will do that and so much more.

Tonight, I sleep in the bed he gives me, and I wrap myself in it even though it’s humid

and hot. I fall asleep quickly and wait to do it all over again. I think of running along the edge of

the grass-covered cliff, climbing back up to the tree house to view the land, playing with the shy

leaves on the side of the house - just watching them open and close at a light touch, and just

enjoying the abundant amount of freedom all over again. I can’t wait to wake up.

And now, I am awoken. A dizzying, nauseous sixteen hour and four-minute flight, a

forty-five-minute boat ride from the mainland in windy waters and murky skies, a ten-minute
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walk up some rickety stairs made out of cracked bricks, and I’m there. My falling kingdom. The

bricks that I walk up are more cracked than ever before. I see a new gazebo that was not there

five years ago when I was last here. I open the door carefully, and a gasp escapes my mouth. A

dead lizard lays at the entrance with its hollowed eyes, open mouth, drained color, and stiff tail. I

shut the door after staring at it for a while. A warning sign. The island is not the beauty she once

was. No longer can she sustain the life she once could. She must age like my grandpa— poorly.

The water of youth eats away at her foundation. The strong house she holds is breaking at the

seams by the very same waters of which I looked upon from the treehouse.

The treehouse that I can no longer view from. The wood that I was scared to fall through

when I climbed up the steps back then now appear as if I might actually fall through. I stand in

front of the same grand tree that is no longer grand, and my sigh stays at ground level. The tree is

dead and cut. The branches and leaves are gone, and a treehouse that sits atop a stump. There are

no people. They have left because no one was here taking care of them. The island is gray and

stiff. The water is not delicate against the land, the shy leaves have no more shame, and my

grandpa does not walk with that same authority. He is hollow as the lizard and doesn’t even

know it, but his way is still the right way.

As I tour the land once more, I am disappointed. My grandpa does not get disappointed.

He gets angry, and I know he will be once he sees the slowly dying land that he wants to revive

and pass down. I am losing the land, but I am grasping onto the beauty just as hard as I grasped

the hand railing of the treehouse. The soil is at the jaws of death, but not in my memories. It

hurts so much to know that this land is not what she once was, yet I will love her and my

grandfather unconditionally no matter how much they slip into the deep waters of

disappointment and death. In my mind, there will always be light shining through the treehouse,
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the shy leaves will be shameful, the people will laugh as they do their chores, and my grandpa

will be strong with his shirt hanging out and a cigarette in his mouth. The land will be alive and I

no longer have to hold on so tightly because these scenes aren’t going anywhere. I am not falling

and the land is not dying. I am preserving it within me. I am the queen of the grandfather’s land.

I’ll love them no matter what they become.