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I GREW up in seven houses. Maybe more, my memory escapes me and that's the thing -- house-hopping displaced much of my childhood memories, the kind that I believe helps the soul grow fonder of its past and be at peace with itself. What the hell am I writing?

The past 10 years, I've been obsessed with the idea of owning a house and to this day it still bothers me why I view home ownership almost like it's a measure of success. I know it's part of being a responsible adult -- making sure I don't become a geriatric who pitches tent in the son's apartment or an overstaying visitor ina realtive's house. But it has got nothing to do with this obsession. There's a big part of me that smiles -- like some gland that releases happiness-inducing chemicals -- every time I think of ways to make sure I don't miss my mortgage payments.

Levi's jeans and a mango tree
Maybe it pains me to be aware that I've lost too many childhood objects that in most families are kept in their rightful corners ready for their owners to see and touch when their lives' currents call for a trip down memory lane. I don't have them because there was just no place to keep them. There was none for my siblings either. We moved from one house to another at a pace that made it ridiculous to grow an emotional bond with a mango tree, a flight of stairs, a corner of the neighbor's fence or the belly of a dining table. I had trophies and medals as a young boy and nobody knows where they are now. No. I can't auction them off to pay for the mortgage. But who knows, they could be among my great consolation prizes if life's ventures fail.

I remember wanting to cry as an adolescent one day. I couldn't because we were new in the house and I had yet to find a reliable hiding place for my weaknesses. Delaying a tear drop and not knowing how long I could keep it suspended was more painful than not having the money to buy just one pair of Levi's jeans.

Peso bills on the roadside
This may be a childhood dream although I don't remember dreaming of ahouse for myself as a child. I longed to have a study table of my own and an aparador (closet) and bed under my name so I'd be free to breathe life into them with graffiti and hide in them peso bills that I found on the roadsides.

There's a bit of irony in my thoughts right this moment. Being aware of what I've lost and did not have makes me feel like I know myself more this time. Call it petty, but what I know about myself for certain is that Me wants a house. No graffiti.

I believe it's a good idea to once in a while retrace what's left of my childhood memories and keep them alive on my journey to owning a house. Alas, there'll be no mango tree within sight of my condo unit in the Philippines.