The damp air clung to Miguel’s skin as he sat on a rickety wooden stool in the kitchen of his childhood home. His mother, Aling Rosa, stirred a pot of sticky rice, the steam rising in thick strands around her. The scent of coconut milk and brown sugar filled the space, a smell that reminded Miguel of home, of simpler times.
“Malagkit,” his mother said, smiling with nostalgia. “Sticky rice. Just like family. No matter where you go, no matter how much you try to break away, you will always be tied together. ”
Miguel nodded absentmindedly. He had departed the province years ago for the city, pursuing dreams larger than the rice fields and small-town chatter. Now, he found himself back, though not fully by choice. His father’s funeral had summoned him home, but guilt had kept him here longer than intended. He hadn’t been present when Tatay grew frail, hadn’t held his hand in those last moments. He had only memories—ones that felt heavier now that he was standing where they were created.
Outside, the rain began to fall, tapping against the tin roof like a rhythmic pulse. The village, drenched in nostalgia, had scarcely changed. The same dusty roads, the same towering coconut trees, the same inquisitive neighbors who murmured about how much Miguel had changed, how the city had altered him.
He stirred his cup of coffee, gazing into the dark liquid. “Ma,” he inquired cautiously, “why did Tatay always insist on making suman during every special occasion? ”
His mother laughed lightly. “Ah, your father. He believed that suman was more than merely food. It was a symbol. We create it together, wrap it in banana leaves, and cook it patiently. Just like how we should treat family—with care, with patience. ”
Miguel sighed. He had been away for such a long time that he had forgotten what patience felt like. In the city, everything moved rapidly—relationships, careers, even meals. But here, everything was slow, intentional. Even grief settled into the bones differently.
A gentle knock at the door drew him from his thoughts. It was Mara, his childhood friend. She stood there, raindrops clinging to her hair, a shy smile dancing on her lips. “Miguel,” she said, her voice holding the weight of unspoken thoughts.
“Mara,” he welcomed, moving aside to let her enter.
She surveyed the house, her fingers gliding over the old wooden furniture as if touching the past itself. “It still smells the same,” she whispered.
Miguel smiled faintly. “Ma’s cooking. ”
They sat together, the stillness between them filled with memories of stolen laughter and whispered dreams beneath the mango tree. Mara had remained in the village, becoming a teacher, while Miguel had left in search of something he couldn’t quite define. Now, he was uncertain if he had discovered it.
“Why did you truly come back, Miguel? ” she asked softly.
He paused. “For Tatay’s funeral. ”
She maintained her gaze on him. “And? ”
He breathed out. “And because I’m uncertain if I still belong in the city. I believed that leaving would grant me freedom, yet I simply feel… lost. ”
Mara reached for a piece of suman that his mother had just completed wrapping. She unwrapped the banana leaf, exposing the shiny, sticky rice inside. “Do you recall what your Tatay would say? ”
Miguel nodded his head.
“He expressed that life resembles suman. It’s messy, sticky, at times difficult to digest. But when you take the moment to appreciate it, you discover it’s sweet. ”
Miguel sensed a tightness in his throat. He hadn’t taken the moment to appreciate much recently. He had been too preoccupied with chasing, running, and evading.
Aling Rosa set a warm plate of suman in front of him. “Eat, anak,” she instructed. “You don’t need to have all the answers right now. Just stay. Allow yourself to remember what it feels like to be home. ”
The rain outside eased, and for the first time in years, Miguel permitted himself to slow down. He took a bite of suman, the flavor of home enveloping his senses, tying him to a past he had nearly forgotten and a future he was finally prepared to welcome.
