As a child, I hated the gloppy, sodium-laced pseudo cheese junk that is Cheez Whiz. Playacting as my yellow hell in a bottle, Cheez Whiz has ruined innumerable lunch hours and birthday blow-outs. It counted as one of my many childhood saboteurs of fun—-alongside obnoxious cough syrups and playtime cornstarch powder—-that aroused the tantrums I curb within the four walls of my four-year-old head.

However, I recall feeling especially high-strung whenever my mother brings home a bottle of Cheez Whiz for my unfortunate sandwich school lunches. The glee is rooted from the happy thought that I have yet another opportunity to take prisoner the Cheez Whiz fairy that lived beneath the Cheez Whiz pot label.

I’d rip the label off each time and think: She hides pretty well.

The urban legend of swallowed citrus seeds lodging their roots into the walls of your gut enthralled me more than the blah fairy-tales of Disney princesses clad in bed sheet-gowns. I imagined having an orange tree breed slowly beneath my skin, with its red-yellow fruits cheek to cheek with my otherwise maroon heart. The resentful nanny swore the branches would begin to crawl out of my ears before I am ten. Of course, I waited for that one momentous occasion in vain.

At age six, I thought that Batibot was an actual place filled with peculiar looking humans with patchwork brains and prosthetic noses; some quiet little town that my mother just could not locate with her car, despite the fact that she had the brains, ability and gas money to locate all the godforsaken Shoe Marts mushrooming in the metropolis.

And then I grew up to be nine and began realizing that Kuya Bodgie is too happy for a middle-aged man—-his method of eternal kindliness was so original, I remember how no adult in my childhood existence was too willing to smile sympathetically whenever I skip my afternoon nap. Mostly any virtual thing made my middle-aged father yell. Kuya Bodgie, I thought, must be bluffing it too perfectly.

At ten, I unlearned, gradually, the lies of special effects and the many fish stories of television and bed time fairy-tales.

And I learned not to trust and to stop believing.

***

This is the beginning of sadness, I say to myself,
as I walk through the universe in my sneakers.
It is time to say good-bye to my imaginary friends,
time to turn the first big number.

It seems only yesterday I used to believe
there was nothing under my skin but light.
If you cut me I could shine.
But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life,
I skin my knees. I bleed.

–Billy Collins, On turning ten

It was already two minutes after twelve. She continued hurting herself until she realized that her face is already turning into a tomato and she decided to stop doubting her senses. Finally, she succeed in convincing herself that what was in her front is nothing but a real piano. But in spite of attaining contentment upon proving that it was not part of her illusions, her curiosity even reached its highest level regarding the existence of that piano in the middle of that “no comment” jungle somewhere in Baguio City.

Confusion almost killed her. Yes, she is a UPan, a certified University Scholar and a Philo freak yet she was not capable of philosophizing on how a piano got there. Then she started to have sleepless nights and whenever they occur, she walked like a zombie in pink (since she is a certified pihkaholic) towards the “no comment” jungle which is just a few steps away from her hell-like dormitory. Unfortunately, after weeks of visiting the creepy place and still seeing the piano, she was not able to find concrete answers.

On another sleepless night, she decided (again!) to walk like a zombie towards the location of that piano. As she stepped out her room, she heard a melody which almost made her heart melt. And suddenly, her tears no longer resisted the gravity. She ran closer to the mysterious place while the lyrics of her favorite song registered clearer on her mind, and the music became louder.

“Bad Spirits! Stop fooling me!”

“Bad spirits? Huh?”

“What are you doing here, my fellow dorm mates?”

“BC 130. Remember? Our deadline will be next week. And we have decided to make our own music video of Nina’s Piano in the dark.”

Today was different. Sure she was with her father, but he couldn’t play Debussy. Not anymore. She hurriedly went to the piano, dusting it off, as if the years went away with the dust. Checking the keys, she was surprised to find them in tune, except for the one black key. It was a sound that made her cringe. Memories flooded her head, tearing her apart. She turned swiftly and headed towards the door grabbing the car keys thinking how ridiculous it was to do what she was about to do. She stopped short of the handle and composed herself, recalling her objective.

Sophie unloaded the piano haphazardly, wanting to get this over with. It was a few minutes before six, the sun slowly moving to sleep, setting with a yawn. She went to get her father from the passenger seat, her eyes moist and fingers trembling as she opened the door. Gently lifting her father, she slowly walked to the piano hoping to end it tonight. She settled her father at the piano. Then she heard it. She couldn’t believe her ears but the notes were perfect. The sun has completely disappeared and the horizon was without a single star. Only the moon. Only the full, solitary moon. She was a kid again, listening to her father play Claire De Lune, her eyes moist and full of emotion.

The past few weeks were dreadful, she had to sell a lot of her fathers property but hearing her father play again, even in her head, was more than enough. She drove off into the night, leaving the piano in the middle of the jungle, leaving the memory of her father playing for the world. Now she could move on with the thought that she left her father doing what he’s been doing all his life. She opened her window and could hear the music. She turned to the passenger seat and looked at the urn. It was only the vessel of her father she now has to bury. Her daddy is out there, playing for the world.

As she was taking a shower one hot day, it hit her. She needed to find her melody. She needed to find the music that would be the definition of her. She always knew how to play the guitar but that wasn’t the instrument for her. A guitar is too rough for her. It was too obvious and self-indulgent. Ever since she could remember she always wanted to learn how to play the piano but never got to because she was too afraid. She was afraid that learning to play the piano might consume her. Now is the time to be brave. Now is the time to confront the piano.

She needed a place where she could be alone with her piano. The first place she tried was at the rooftop of the building she is living in but the city was too noisy and it was mocking her. The city was waiting for her fail. And then she tried the beach, again it was too noisy for her. The sound of the sea crashing on the rocks was too much for her to bear. The sea doubted her like the small voices in her head.

She was headed home when she saw the place. It was perfect. Every tree that was standing is like the strings on her piano. The leaves of the trees would consume any noise that would defile her mind. She started playing the piano. At first it didn’t make any sense, but she studied every note and before long she was able to get it. In time she was able to find her melody. And in return to the place where she found her melody she offered her piano. It wasn’t long until people discovered the piano. She never spoke a word that that was her piano. She figured it would be much better if people assume that a fairy or any other paranormal being left the piano than a girl just looking for her melody.