one of our hard drives was becoming wonky.

the sleek black drive was one of our oldest friends and now that the cord wasn’t working properly, i decided to transfer everything into our newer, bigger, blue drive.

i unearthed photos from old cameras and phones—old usbs and laptops.

there’s a folder called “iphone videos” from 2010-2011. i found a video of my dog, back when he was still mostly black (he’s more white than black and brown now). he was sitting nicely on my grandma’s bed. i’m chanting "i’m taking a video, video" and trying to get him to bark. my darling boy doesn’t. in the background, you can hear my grandma laugh and say he’s so calm; so beautiful.

there’s a folder nestled in my dad’s self-named folder called litrato¹. in it, you’ll find more folders with different dates and events and photo sources. there’s a folder from his old nokia phone (that he only retired in 2013) where, out of the 23 photos he kept, 22 were of me.

my dad likes to tell me he’s resigned as my dad; that i’m too old for quality time and hugs and parallel play. but his facebook profile photo is a selfie of us on my college graduation, and the one before that is a photo of us during my high school one. he remembers i like wheat and sourdough bread more than white, and that i liked ketchup with my pancakes when i was 10. he feigns irritation when i ask him to sit with me when i can’t sleep, but he’ll find something to do on the laptop and stay until i’m fast asleep.

ruby’s iphone—from my mom’s stylish iphone 3gs. there are photos of me when i was 10, but most of the videos and photos are of my dog. my mom’s voice still sounds the same, even after 14 years had gone by.

in another nested folder from the one named litrato, there are photos of my grandparents. i hold little no memories of the overnight trip for my grandma’s birthday, but there’s something so nostalgic about seeing my grandpa wearing his favourite blue check button up and jeans, gold bracelet on as always. my grandma was wearing her favourite black and white blouse, hair permed and dyed to perfection. they’re standing at the doorway of the guest house we stayed in and somehow, the way they’re posed is reminiscent of their wedding photo from 49 years prior.

i find a photo from my sixth birthday. i’m clinging to my grandpa’s pants. another photo from my seventh; i’m in my pe uniform, on the phone early in the morning. mom tells me i’m calling grandpa to tell him i turned seven.

my grandpa adored me, according to my parents. he’d buy me things at the drop of a hat, drove long distances immediately just because i said i missed him and my grandma. grandpa used to sneak me off to mcdonald’s when i was hungry, even though i wasn’t allowed to eat fast food. he had a swing set built for me in their garden because i liked to swing. he died the year i turned 11 and we sent him off with a 21 gun salute, and i never got to kiss him goodbye. i wonder if he’s proud with how my life turned out.

the more i sleuth around the folders of our old hard drive, the more events i barely remember i unearth. there’s the aquarium date with the guy who liked my aunt, old recitals and theatre shows, funerals and birthdays; even old friends.

recently, i fear i’ve been too tough on myself. i’ve been paying too much attention to the monster in my mirror and the terrible creature that dwells in a corner of my heart.

going through old photos with file names like “kitty” (me holding up a hello kitty toy kit) and “princess and the pauper” (me and my dad) has made me realise that it’s not a monster that looks back at me in the mirror. the terrible creature that dwells inside me is not alone.

the girl looking back at me in the mirror is my 9 year old self who loves taking selfies as much as my 24 year old self does.

the dweller in my heart is the 6 year old girl who was too excited at the prospect of being a Big Girl, not afraid of the envious being that lurks beside her.

there is no monster in the mirror, no jealous demon in me.

it’s just me.

even after all the terrors; all the grief, it’s still me and the little girl who danced around, uncaring of the world around her.

ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚

after a nap, a sundae, half an artisanal marshmallow, and some more thinking, the terrors have subsided. for today, at least. the horrors do not exist in my land (tomorrow they will grip me like a snake).

the odd man out in my dad's 23 photos from his old phone is my younger cousin, j. in the background, you can see my grandma's legs. j is 20 this year, off in college.

a song for you, as always.

thank you for being here.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

1. litrato is the filipino word for photograph. my dad had a penchant for naming his folders in filipino. he had pelikula (movies) and musika (songs/music) as well. in his musika folder, he had gregorian chants next to his rock music. some things just never change.↩