Memory Lane

by Marlon Viloria

It has been a few weeks gone since I took this photo and wanted then to relive the earlier chapters of my life by writing a short story behind the story. But somehow I was unable to collect my thoughts in putting memories into words, more so in finding the right balance, approach and tone. As a matter of absolute fact, it was never planned nor intended to drop by at this place, most especially on a Sunday morning following another sleepover on a Saturday night at my daughter’s place in London. It was supposed to be a limited or alcohol-free meal so we could head back home on that same night. But it turned out to be a shallow promise of mine, easily broken by the mere sight of other diners enjoying their drinks, thus prompting me almost instantly to order a bottle of Bordeaux wine to soothe and whet my drooling appetite, or thirst. Without giving away the whole gravity of my alcohol indulgence to the innocents, the only responsible course of action to take after a few sips was to sleep over, as it would have been idiotic of me to drive long distance under the influence of alcohol, whereby the safety of my family is compromised.

On that following morning as we drove back home, there was very light traffic on the road and could have carried on driving and taking the fastest route. But I had a last minute change of plan and decided to drive through the affluent areas of Knightsbridge and Kensington, and took a turn at the next back road. It was at that moment when I realised I was driving on a street that was very much familiar to me in the past. There was an instant rush of blood flowing inside my veins; a direct result of my heartbeat going into overdrive as memories during my early years in this country came flooding in. With slight hesitation, I decided to park the car at an adjacent street and proceeded to wander around. Unaware of what was going on, my wife gave a bemused expression on her face and told her that I just wanted to check something. And as we stood in front of a building structure, I then told her that this was the first ever Roman Catholic church I entered in England.

This is how the story goes….

Almost 30 years ago when I was still a full-fledged, practising Catholic, this was the first ever church I attended mass in the UK. It was the nearest Catholic church from where we used to live and it is still vivid in my mind those early Sunday mornings when my late mother, sister Beatrice and myself were attending mass together, until we moved to another place in the eastern side of the city. In addition, I also used to drop by for short visits once or twice during the week, either after watching a movie at a nearby cinema or after window-shopping in Oxford Street, or even after going for a walk in Hyde Park and mixing with tourists in places of interest. The extra visits to this church were not just me keeping in line with customary traditions and adhering to the teachings of the faith I was brought up with since birth. But more importantly, I was doing it because I was also praying for something of immense importance as well as of deep personal nature, which had subsequently shaped and altered the course of my life in the proceeding years to come.

With my wife and our younger daughter beside me, we sat there inside quietly, together with a few religious-looking people doing their own rituals. In so doing, I was being swallowed into the spiritual precipice of deep reflection which took me to a journey back into the foggy straits of Memory Boulevard. I looked around inside the church, and as far back as my memory could muster, I let my brain cells rolled back and replayed the scenes of those yesteryears, while trying my best not to miss any reminiscing detail. I was trying to remember those moments when my sister and I were still sitting side by side with our mother inside this church, and piecing together old remnants of an already fading photograph of the three of us. At that moment, it felt as though the presence of her sitting beside me once again was undeniably strong.

It was an intense emotional moment for me as I unfolded those years of simplistic yet joyous existence, then branching out to those years of juvenile delinquency on my part which subsequently transformed me into the age of maturity and adulthood at later years. The worries and cries I inflicted on my mother due to my seemingly untenable behaviour and lack of direction in life, etcetera…etcetera, all came rolling back too.  As those events were unravelling inside my head, I asked her forgiveness for the pains I had caused. Feelings of deep regrets ensued, wishing to undo even just some of the damages I incurred and ultimately have the chance to make it up to her. But it was already too late, she is gone. Inevitably, I shed a tear or two at that moment in time, while trying to conceal such overflowing emotions from my wife and pretending to be cool instead. A pathetic macho-type gesture, for I knew too well that it was an absurd contradiction to what was coming out from the inner sanctum of my humanity. It was indeed a solemn moment and spiritually uplifting for me with no intent of sounding over-dramatic on its emphasis. Believe you me, the reality speaks volumes, devoid of exaggerated reactions and make-beliefs, let alone traces of feeble-minded shenanigans. Believe you me, you must!

As we sat inside, we found out that there was a mass at 10:30 on that morning and decided to wait for it. After all, we both could not remember the last time we attended such liturgical rites and felt that it was only appropriate for us, not by any means in the name of religion but rather in appreciation to our tradition and culture, and our roots which have moulded us from the day we were born. It’s more of a sense of belonging rather than an outsider. And as we left the church after the mass, there was a feeling of lightness in my being as we walked back to the car. More so that I have, at last, expressed my gratitude for the positive outcome of my prayers, presenting irrefutable as well as irrevocable proof right there with me.

My wife asked why I did not tell the story to her before, nor did I mention anything about this church after all those years we’ve been together. She even suggested from that day onwards, that we should attend mass at that church every Sunday. I did not give her an answer although I was quite sure she has already understood its significance into our lives.