The Christmas lights in our town were never bright.

They were made of stars instead—quiet ones that hung patiently above coconut trees and narrow dirt paths, blinking only when the night breeze brushed the leaves.

That was the Christmas when we were left in our grandfather’s care.

Our parents had gone to Manila, chasing a future they promised would one day return for us. They had taken with them our younger brother and our sister—small enough to be carried, young enough to forget. We, the two older boys, stayed behind. Old enough to understand separation, but too young to understand why it had to happen.

Lolo never explained much. He didn’t need to.

He woke us before dawn, as he always did—Christmas or not—when the air was cool enough to make us pull our shirts closer to our skin. The world smelled of damp earth and river water. Roosters crowed half-heartedly, as if even they were not ready to be awake.

We walked quietly to the riverbank, our slippers whispering against the packed soil. The Labo River lay before us, dark and wide, a thin mist floating just above its surface. The small banca rocked gently as Lolo steadied it with one hand. The wood was cold under our fingers. The river smelled faintly of mud, grass, and something old and familiar—like time itself.

Lolo climbed in first. Then us.

The paddle dipped into the water with a soft plunk, sending ripples outward that caught the pale reflection of the sky. Each stroke made a slow, hollow sound, the kind that echoes only in early morning. Somewhere along the bank, a bird stirred. Somewhere else, water lapped quietly against roots.

We crossed without speaking.

On the far side, the land opened gently where the Matogdon River flowed—narrower, calmer, a tributary that slipped quietly into the Labo as if it didn’t want attention. Lolo’s coconut plantation sat right beside it. Tall trees stood in rows, their fronds rustling softly overhead, releasing the clean, green scent of leaves and morning dew.

The cows were already awake. Their breath rose in faint white clouds as Lolo worked. The pail felt cool and solid between my knees. When the milk struck its surface, it made a soft, steady rhythm—tap… tap… tap—a sound so gentle it felt like it belonged to the morning. Flies buzzed lazily. The river murmured nearby, never stopping, never rushing.

Lolo said little. He believed that work done before sunrise carried its own kind of prayer.

By the time we crossed back, the sky had begun to lighten. Smoke from the kitchen fire curled into the air, carrying the smell of rice cooking—warm, comforting, unmistakably home. Lolo hummed as he stirred the pot, a tune worn smooth by years. He tied his slippers slowly, as if time itself had learned to wait for him.

At night, when the oil lamp flickered and shadows stretched across bamboo walls, we would sometimes ask, almost in a whisper:

“Lolo… kailan uuwi sina Mama at Papa?”

Lolo would smile—not sadly, but gently—as if the question itself deserved kindness.

“Kapag handa na ang bukas,” he would say.

When tomorrow is ready.

I do not remember celebrating anything special on Christmas Eve that year. No midnight rituals. No breathless waiting. The night passed quietly—rice, stories, sleep—like any other evening.

But Christmas Day came alive.

By midmorning, familiar voices arrived—laughter first, footsteps next. Tia Letty, Tia Rita, and other relatives filled the house with warmth. The air changed. It smelled of steamed rice, coconut leaves, and freshly cooked delicacies.

The table transformed. Puto, soft and white, still warm to the touch. Suman, fragrant and sticky, wrapped carefully and waiting to be opened. Other native dishes followed—simple, generous, lovingly prepared—each one carrying the hands and memories of the people who made them.

The house felt fuller. The walls seemed to listen.

Lolo moved among everyone quietly, refilling plates, reminding us boys to eat properly—enough to be full, not enough to be wasteful. Outside, the afternoon sun softened the river’s edge. Somewhere beyond the Labo and the Matogdon, our parents were in Manila—working, planning, hoping—building a life they promised would one day include us again.

Lolo spoke of them not with worry, but with pride.

“They are building something,” he said.

“Hindi lang para sa kanila—para sa inyong lahat.”

That Christmas did not shout.

It did not sparkle.

It waited— like the banca rocking gently at dawn, like the Matogdon quietly joining the Labo, like two boys learning patience before celebration.

Years later, we would leave that house. We would cross bigger rivers, travel farther, and finally understand.

That Christmas was not about what we lacked. It was about cold wood beneath our fingers, mist on the river, milk tapping softly into a pail, the smell of rice and puto, and a grandfather who taught two boys that even waiting— like crossing a river before sunrise— can be an act of love.

About the author

HANSEL ARROYO is the son of Atty. David Arroyo from Baao, Camarines Sur, and Purita de Jesus from Labo, Camarines Norte, whose devotion to learning, integrity, and service shaped the lives of their children. He grew up among accomplished siblings: Zeferino, an accomplished surgeon; David Jr., a civil engineer, and Madelene, a certified public accountant (CPA). Hansel graduated with a degree in Electrical Engineering and placed at the top of the board examinations. His career began with Atlantic, Gulf & Pacific (AG&P). Later, he received a scholarship from the Federal Republic of Germany and spent two years in advanced technical studies abroad. Upon his return, he was hired by Philips Electrical where he earned the distinction of being the highest-ranking Filipino in the company’s manufacturing division. He remained with Philips from 1972 until 1982. He completed his MBA degree at De La Salle University, He migrated to the United States with his family and transitioned into the rapidly expanding field of Information Technology. He held various IT leadership roles until his retirement in 2015. Married to Angelina Cariaga, and together they raised two daughters, Hannah and Helmina. They live in Southern California.