Blog: Oh the places, you'll go

In 19 days, I'll be on a plane heading to Tacloban City. I can't help but think of 9 year old me running around Tacloban with my sisters and cousins and what her life would have been like if my mom wasn't a nurse or wasn't in the US. There have been multiple versions of me throughout my life, and so much of who I became traces back to that origin story.
​But then again, I've had several points that I've considered canon events. 

I also think about my childhood and what parts would I say I'd imagined or added/taken away through the years. I have this photo album with the little pictures I'd apparently taken from the house all those years ago. I know that as soon as we land, I'll probably cry after the heat and humidity hit me. I'm prepared for whatever emotions bubble up to the surface. 
31 years.
Can you believe it's been that long? I haven't seen cousins in 31 years. There has been a generation that was born within that time frame. My Lolo died in 2001. I'd like to see the grave of the man who told me stories - whether he meant to scare me, entertain or pass down folklores, he made me want to hear and read and write all these stories. 
My son is 10; he turned 10 in April so he is the age that I was when I left.
My daughter is 14; she turned 14 in March—around the same age I was when I last stepped foot in Tacloban.
The ages strike a nerve. 
The ages strike a nerve.
The longevity and passage of time feels heavier.
And my husband, who has only heard my childhood in snippets, who only hears the language when my parents visit, will be meeting a different version of me. One that existed long before Texas, before teaching, before motherhood, before all the versions of myself that came after.
Nineteen days.
For years, Tacloban has existed in photographs, stories, and memory. A place that feels both familiar and imagined. A place I have spent decades writing about, even when I wasn't aware that I was doing it.
In nineteen days, I'll find out what remains.
What I remembered correctly.
What I forgot.
What time has softened.
And somewhere between the girl who left and the woman who is returning, I suspect there is another story waiting for me.
Nineteen days.
But who's counting?