At half past-one in the morning, I could hear my brother Kazu laughing like a kid in his room. The boy-man (he's 18 now) is most likely catching up on animes he missed during the short trip we made for the holidays. Tomorrow, he might take me window shopping for laptops.
Mama and the Japanese step-dad are both snoring in the living room (Jess definitely outsnores Cecille hands-down), because we have visiting relatives (Tita Gigi, her partner Ichan, their 4 kids in tow, plus Teru) sleeping in the main room. Tomorrow, the plan is we all go skiing, butprobably everyone would just end up playing with snow or sliding down the slopes on kiddie sleighs.
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Pretty soon, these will all just be part of things I'd reminisce about or vaguely remember when I look at 2008-early 2009 photos.
You never tell friends the mundane stories when they ask about your travel; you tell them of the grander things like hiking up Mt. Fuji (which I didn't do) or getting treated to an authentic 4-course Japanese fine dining lunch (happened last Monday). The grand things you remember vividly, you memorize the colors and see snapshots so clearly in your head. The image attached to the mundane maybe a bit blurred but it has a smell, a sound, a taste. When we revisit the Grand, we do it on purpose, dusting off album jackets, then leafing through the scenes one by one. Usually, the Grand makes us think of happy times. The mundane, on the other hand, sneaks up on us and makes us want to go back (because the mundane experiences are the closest we could get to "the way things were").
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