“My Chico Tree”
Edylwise Romero

One of my earliest childhood memories is of curling up by the large roots of the chico tree in front of our house in the Philippines. My mom told me I first learned to read in its shade. After she left me to emigrate to the United States and find work, I often found myself curled up in some crevice created by its intertwining roots. I hoped to feel the same comfort I felt when my mom would read to me.

I cried often because I missed her. The world was cruel for taking her away. I was lost. I looked for my mom under the chico tree and would fall asleep crying wondering where she went. “Kuya” Justin used to tease me. Even though we were unrelated, I still called him “brother” because he was older by two years. He loved to climb and sit on the branches that hung a little closer to the ground. When he was feeling generous he would toss me a chico fruit, a twin of the kiwifruit.

*

I met my mom again at the age of ten. She welcomed me into the United States when I landed at San Francisco International Airport, and she hugged me so tight my heart almost skipped a beat. After reuniting with her, I wanted to feel rooted like before, but something was different. My mom did not feel like the person I was looking for under the chico tree. She wanted me to speak English to make my assimilation easier. Soon her request became a demand. I broke my tongue. English did not let me roll my “r”s and it forced me to soften how my letters came together. I cannot quite pronounce words in English or Tagalog or Pangasinan the right way. Years passed, but I still yearned for my special place under the chico tree, next to its wide crumbly trunk, staring at the light green velvet bottom of its leaves, wishing for one of the chico fruits to leave its small oval companions.

When I was in middle school, I made a Facebook account. I found Kuya Justin and some of my other friends in the Philippines. Sometimes they would ask me when I was coming home. Other times, we would reminisce about playing hide and seek or tag under the chico tree until their parents would yell for them to come home. Every time they asked, I responded with a simple maybe this Christmas or maybe this summer. Soon they got busy and moved on with their lives.

*

Eleven years had passed since I last laid eyes on my hometown. At 21 years old, things look smaller, parts of houses renovated or re-painted with more vibrant colors, and some simply missing. I was back, in an attempt to find what I had looked for under my chico tree. My chest tightened and I gulped down a mixture of emotions. I walked along the now cemented street of our cul-de-sac. The entrance to my mom’s house was enveloped with green vines, and I was unable to enter through the gate facing the cul-de-sac.

A large two-story house glared at me, as if to ask why I was only coming home now. Apart from its size, the lack of color set it further apart from the rest of the houses in the neighborhood. It would have been comparable to a mansion, but without its doors and windows and weeds reclaiming the front yard, it looked incomplete and abandoned. I remembered when the house was still under construction and I stayed at my relatives’ house next door. The construction of the house provided some promise of my mom’s return, after all, she would not rebuild our house if she was not coming back. I was wrong. I made it back before her.

As I stared at my old home I realized that there was something missing. My chico tree should be to the right side of the house. The surface of my palms itched as they remembered the fuzziness of the soft chico fruits. I recalled the sweet juices of the fruit dripping down my chin while I ran around with the other kids.

I stared at where my tree should have been. Justin used to tell me if I swallowed the almond-sized seeds they will grow inside of me; I always accidentally swallowed the tiny seeds and was constantly worried a chico tree would grow out of my stomach. Maybe the seeds were waiting for me to return before they started growing. But now, there were no signs of my beloved sanctuary. In my childhood, we ran around the tree a lot. I got piggyback rides from Justin whenever it was muddy and I complained enough. We looked for tadpoles after the rain. We laughed whenever one of us fell over into the knee-deep water that collects after a storm during typhoon season. My chico tree survived multiple typhoons, I looked again. No roots.

I continued to reminisce as I went down the cul-de-sac. As I passed my godmother’s house I saw a figure. He looked in my direction, but my blurry vision could not recognize him. As I got closer I realized it was someone I knew. The man in front of me looked like the little boy I used to run around the chico tree with. He had the same dark brown eyes and thick eyebrows. The same pinched nose that looked a little small for his long, roundish face. The bangs from his bowl cut days were now combed back, and his hairline shaped his face sharply. He stood up.

“Hi Ehdelwise. Do you still remember me?” he asked in English.

“Of course!” I replied. How could I not?

*

A few weeks later, I went to a christening for my uncle’s daughter. I was the godmother. As it turns out, Justin was the godfather. We both looked like giants next to everyone, though he was certainly taller than me. I was excited to run into him again but unsure how to express it appropriately under the watchful eyes of my relatives. While we waited for instructions from the priest, we focused our attention to our goddaughter. This attention served as a buffer, because culturally when young individuals from the opposite gender interact directly, the elders would assume romantic relations immediately.

Luckily, my relatives had another christening to attend, and I excused myself by saying I wanted to spend more time with my goddaughter. After the reception, Justin was tasked with driving me home. But he didn’t drive me home immediately.

We drove to the beach fifteen minutes away from the reception. I learned he had returned home from Japan a couple of days before me after being abroad for three years. We tried to exchange as many questions as we could during our drive, using a mixture of Tagalog, Pangasinan, and English as we both struggled through our broken tongues. “How are your brothers? Your mom?” he asked me. “I heard you moved to Japan?” I said to him. “How long were you there for?” We both wanted to know so much.

“Are you married now?” I asked finally. The question slipped out.

He laughed in response. “Almost.” His ex-girlfriend in Japan had offered to marry him so he could stay in the country longer, but he did not want to marry someone just for papers. Besides, their relationship became too challenging towards the end. After a long pause, he asked me, “Do you have a boyfriend?”

*

Justin waited for me in front of the house. He was taking me to watch Aquaman. First, he had to answer the questions of my aunts and uncles. “Where are you guys going? How long? Is it just you two?” Once he managed to wriggle free, we drove to the only mall in town with a theater, about twenty minutes away. They were not showing Aquaman. Eventually, we found ourselves two cities and, due to traffic, two hours away from my house. This mall was huge and I felt overwhelmed by the number of people. We ate before we purchased our tickets. As we talked and walked I felt myself leaning towards him, occasionally our arms would brush against each other.

Our hands finally found each other before we entered the theater. I looked at Justin and I found my chico tree reflected in his eyes.

* * *