I can name a hundred things I miss from my childhood, but the one that often comes to mind is the predictability of the seasons back then. When I was a kid, the weather around this time would be Christmasy— cold with the occasional breeze that makes going to Simbang Gabi even more special. I miss how that kind of weather would extend even until my birthday in February, after which we’d have long summer nights which I also miss terribly, and the first shower of May which really comes in May. I miss how the rainy season coincides with the opening of classes. And I miss how by September, the weather would be uneventful as it slowly eases again into the cool breeze of December.
Now, the weather is anything but predictable. Now we can’t even have a decent summer without worrying that it might rain in the beach while we’re there. It’s a few weeks before Christmas and here we are, devastated by yet another calamity in a province that has never been visited by a storm in the last decade. And it’s not that I’ve suddenly turned into a radical environmentalist or something, but this climate change is starting to get real on me that I think I’m about to make it my personal cause. If only because I miss my childhood. And I miss the predictability of things back then. And at this point when nothing else is certain, the changing of seasons should at least be one of the things we can still count on.
This morning, my favorite priest texted me that famous poem that goes: If winter is upon us, can spring be far behind? I just had to text back and say: These days, father, you just don’t know anymore. And God knows I wasn’t just referring to the seasons when I said that.