I REMEMBER things as if they happened yesterday.
When I was a child, I used to spend hours playing with crayons and some empty sheets. My mom would tell me that I drew landscapes and scenery of places we’ve been to before. Recently, I went over my childhood box and saw old drawings buried in dust. Some of them I’ve sketched in kindergarten, filled with stick drawings of my friends and me playing over the seesaw and swings.
And the strange thing is, I still see the exact moment in my head. I see pigtails, frills, and bows over beaming little kids. I remember faces.
I remember the faces of my childhood neighbors as we played patintero in the morning and played house in the afternoon. In 2019, I remember shy yet hopeful faces of OrSem blocks housed in the massive covered courts. Then, in some room over SEC-A, I remember the faces of my Ateneo professors, whose eyes lit up as we nodded our heads over their soulful class lectures.
I also remember time.
In high school, 9 AM meant recess or a quick homeroom film viewing session. In college, it meant rushing from the dorm to Berchmans for my Theology class, carrying annotated readings in one hand and a breakfast sandwich on another. Before, noon meant cafeteria lunch with my high school friends but a study session at Matteo in college.
3 PM was my favorite. This hour meant huddling with my org mates at the MVP building until sundown. And if we had no orals the next day, we’d walk to Regis for dinner and go out for drinks.
Suddenly, I remember freshman year.
There was always something new: A different food stall to try at Gonzaga or JSEC, a new lanyard from an org General Assembly that I was pressured into, or seniors excited to impart a piece of college advice or two.
In my eyes, everything seemed fresh and novel. I had many things to associate my memories with. It could be a crack on one of the Ateneo pavement bricks before my first Math long exam or a lost umbrella, bringing me to the day of my first orals at the Dela Costa building.
I distinguished days by associating faces, times over the clock, and events during my first year in Ateneo.
It’s tough having the same photographic memory now when I’ve spent most of the last two years in enclosed spaces. I got too fond of seeing figments of faces, of hours on my watch, and sceneries as a way of remembering.
It’s difficult to do that these days. I struggle to distinguish one day from the next when all I could see are people in pixels and boxes arranged on a screen. I fail to tell the difference between an online meeting to another when, apart from my calendar labels, there is only a red button to end the day with.
There are lesser things now that I could remember the days by.
In 2022, I’ll be entering my last year of college. At that time, three batches would have graduated online before ours. Still, I am confronted with questions on how I can best remember my would-be senior year long after it has gone. How do I know I’ve truly lived my remaining college years if I couldn’t remember days as vividly as I used to?
In the past two years of life in distance and spaces, I realize I still differentiate days from another—just not in ways I used to do.
Last month, I remember having fun on a Wednesday over jokes and banters shared in my Philosophy class. In sophomore year, I remember being excited and thrilled for my first set of Zoom classes. Back then, I was happy enough to feel closer to Ateneo again.
Today, I no longer distinguish days by remembering the faces I see and greet at busy halls, by the hours on the clock, nor by org dinners at Regis.
This time, I remember feelings.
