Article: The Treasures in the Baul, Readers' Digest, January 2009.

Readers’ Digest, January 2009


The Treasures in the Baul

Others may see them as trivial possessions, but to me they are emblems of an unforgettable love
by Josefina N. Dy-Liacco

Before I proceed, let me explain what a baul is. It is a wooden trunk made of two compartments where old folks store their clothes. The first compartment is a shallow one and stores underwear and other small things. The second compartment is deeper so it can hold bigger garments. Camphor balls keep away the rats and cockroaches.
My mother had a baul. It was her hope chest.
I was only 13 years old when Mama died. Father told me that after giving birth to my youngest brother the previous year, she had become very sickly. Yet she went on with the usual household chores. It was my role to see to my five siblings, whose ages ranged from one to ten years old. I saw to it that they were properly bathed, clothed and fed.
Not wanting to worry us, Mama carried on with her usual calm disposition, never faltering in her speech or in her steps. Still, we noticed her sudden loss of weight and paleness.
Being an optimist, Mama had strong faith in God. We would have our morning ''promenade,'' as she called it, praying the rosary as we went along. Our home - in Barangay Sagpon, Albany province, in central Philippines – was a stone's throw from the church, so after our walk, we would attend Mass.
During one of these walks Mama casually told me about her baul. She said it contained her burial dress and some treasures she was leaving for me. However, she explicitly told me that I should only open it in the event of her death. She handed me the key of the baul for safekeeping.
Her words didn't have much of an impact on me. Not having experienced death in our family, I thought that it was nothing to be reckoned with.
As days went by, Mama's health did not improve. Gradually she became weaker and weaker.
One day, I saw her sewing a brown dress by hand in spite of her condition. She was adept at sewing and needlework. It was from her that I learned all these things.

In spite of all the medications, her condition became worse. The doctor, who visited regularly, diagnosed lung infection. On her final day, a Thursday, she woke up in the middle of the night. We found her profusely sweating and struggling to breathe. But her mind was clear and lucid.

She called us one by one - my father, my brothers and sisters, my maternal and paternal grandparents and myself - to ask for forgiveness. She also told me that, being the eldest, I had to take care of my siblings and love them. She finally breathed her last breath after the priest gave her Holy Communion.

My father, who had never been away from Mama, was inconsolable in his grief. Immediately after she died, he seemed to be lost in time, not knowing what to do. God must have given me the strength and the courage to take action.

I went to my father and told him about Mama's burial dress in the baul. He broke into tears, for how long I cannot remember. He must have come to his senses at some point because he eventually started making preparations for the wake and the burial.

Obeying my mother's request, I took the key and hurried to the baul, which was kept in a storeroom. I was apprehensive; a feeling of mysterious expectancy overcame me. I wondered if a genie, like the one in Aladdin's lamp, would spring forth when the baul was opened.

As the key rattled in the lock, the lid lifted with a melodious ring. The room was filled with the scent of camphor, reminiscent of clothes stored for ages. There on top of the first compartment was Mama's burial dress. It was the brown dress I had seen her pain-stakingly sewing by hand.

I felt a tug in my heart. Mama must have imagined herself wearing it on her deathbed. Optimist that she was, she still had a premonition that death might come to her any time. So she prepared to face the Lord in proper attire.

Occupied with thoughts of the funeral, I quickly removed the dress and closed the baul without looking any further. After the burial, I could not contain my curiosity; I went back to the baul to see what else Mama had left for me.

There, underneath bed linens at the bottom of the second compartment, I found dozens of hankies - some embroidered by her own hands, others fancy ones - fans made of silk and paper, and bottles of perfumes. Were they the treasures that she had lovingly set aside for me?

That day marked the beginning of my fondness for all these things. I would rather lose a dress than lose a hanky. In my free time I embroider hankies. I collect fans. I make rag dolls, which I give to my grandchildren.
I am nearly 90 years old but my love for these things have never waned. To some they may seem trivial, very material things, but to me they are the symbols of Mama's love, mementos too sweet to forget for they bring poignant memories of a tender, loving mother. My mother is still with me when I daub her favourite scent, jasmine.

My memory fails me now, but there is a line in a song, which says, ''If you lost your mother, you lost the best of all.''