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    That Place Called Sprinkles Cafe’ Essay

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    I can still remember the time I was visiting my Tita Lila. I was 6, and I enjoyed every bit of going to my relatives’ houses. It was overlooking the beach. I can see the water stretching across the miles, and the sun dipping its rays into the deep blue sea. The vintage smell of wood and salty air is a great combination; together with the sound of the waves crashing and people laughing. It felt perfect, and it felt homey. That was the first time I felt a feeling of home. When I was grade 5, my home economics teacher explains to us what home means. Home is a feeling.

    You can’t touch it nor even explain it. It’s just the little things that make your heart warm, your smile a little bit wider and your spirit free. There are no bad aura, no negative emotion. She’d asked us what our home is. It made me think of it and wrote what I had in mind. Home is the sound of my grandfather saying “Hello. What do you want for snacks? ,” or simply just “Hi, gha. ” when I arrived from school. He became my father figure since my papa died in a car accident. Home is also the warm feeling of my grandmother hugging me and asking, “How was your day? or saying positive quotes like “Everything will be okay. ” when things go wrong.

    It is the sound of my mom’s voice at 10 in the evening, a long distance call from Canada, saying “I Love you. Take Care. ” It is the fragrant smell of Nang Linda’s famous adobo, a specialty of our housekeeper. It is having my two cousins, Jaecy, a chubby thirteen year-old that thinks like a twenty year-old and Neil, a sporty dark eleven year old who thinks like a seven year old. They are two different personalities that made our house a jolly one. They are the source of our enjoyment and our smiles.

    Home is the light and happy emotion when we’re all in the dining table, laughing, talking about the experiences we all had for the day. Then I said to myself that “Home is where your heart is, and home is in my family. ” I was wrong. As time goes by, the feeling of home is slowly fading. There is no grandfather greeting me the same way because, as an elementary coach, he is always with his basketball team. If not, he is in front of our television cheering “Go, Lakers! ” My grandmother is busy with planting her orchids, orange vandas, and lavender denrovrium are her favorites, and landscaping her garden in our backyard.

    She doesn’t even check when I got home. My mother is occupied with work that she forgot to call. I understand her situation, but sometimes I get used to it and that hearing her voice became something to make my day complete. There is no smell of adobo or any of my favorite meals since Nang Linda’s getting old and quit her job. My cousins’ fights every night with the little things like “It’s my time to use the remote control! ” “But it’s still my time! ” said the other, that will end in a big disaster. Our dinner is turning into a silent one.

    You can hear the cricket’s sound and even the buzz of a bug. No one is sharing funny stories about their day. My grandparents are always fighting about the same things in front of me. Screaming “Who left the door open? ” shouting “Where is the remote? ” arguing “Why is our rice not well cooked? ” “How come I’m the one to blame? ” it’s too much. The once light and happy sound became a heavy and angry noise. I don’t know how it ended that way. I have a house, but I have no home. I was searching for a place where I can feel happy again, where I can feel whole.

    Places where I can feel my heart dance or my eyes twinkle; a feeling that I never felt in my so-called home. I was down and feeling low, and I decided that I could take a walk. My emotions turned up a bit. I felt a little relaxed and then “boom! ” Here comes the rain. I didn’t have my umbrella that time. I ran into the nearest store at the corner of a religious private school and entered. It is between two ancestral houses with Capiz shells and wooden doors. The door chimed, and I was welcomed to the bitter aroma of brewed coffee and sound of the exhaust of a coffee machine.

    There was a different kind of aroma though; an aroma so familiar that my nostalgic feelings surround me. It was the antique smell of paper. I know back then what it was. It wasn’t a store; it was Sprinkles Café, and it has books in it, a lot of them. I never thought that there is that kind of place in our city. I was so shocked and relieved. I stroll around the café and admire its interior. Its flesh and turquoise painting made it feel energetic yet also tranquil. There are so many bright-colored windows with stained glasses that it made the café bright and relaxing.

    The old and the new combined made it a modern yet sophisticated looking café. They have the best staff. My favorite one was Ate Curly because she has curly hair. She knows my favorite Caramel Latte with whipped cream and chocolate sauce. Diabetics, I know. They are playing old love songs that calm every inch of my nerves. I kneeled, tiptoed, and jumped my way around to find the perfect book, touching its spine and feeling its texture. I grabbed a book that has a funny title and read it while I ordered my favorite caramel latte.

    How could anyone resist the smell of coffee and books plus it was raining outside? I was contented and at peace. I felt happiness that I never felt in ages. My heart was lightweight. There were no more needles punctured inside it or shouting that pierced my ears. There was silence. Silence that I never thought I could hear; silence that made my body and soul at peace. The once ice cold emotion melted. I felt my veins bloom like the flowers on a spring day. I felt every little thing goes back in its place after a disturbance. For the first time in a long time, I felt safe, I felt home.

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    That Place Called Sprinkles Cafe’ Essay. (2018, Aug 15). Retrieved from

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