by Khen P. Julia

How do you answer when your aging grandmother asks, “Where are you headed?”

“Where are you headed?” she asked, her voice soft yet full of curiosity. My grandmother always asked me this question, no matter how recent our last conversation was. She was no longer the sharp woman who raised me with stories of her childhood, but her gentle persistence remained unchanged.

I hesitated. The truth was, I didn’t know how to answer her. A literal reply—“school” or “the basketball court”—felt too hollow for what she was really asking. Was she asking where I was going today, or where I was going in life? Both questions felt too big for a sixteen-year-old boy to answer. So instead, I replied vaguely, “I’m just figuring it out, Lola.”

Her face softened into a knowing smile, one I couldn’t quite read. She always seemed to see more in my answers than I intended.

***

When I was a child, my grandmother’s house was my whole world. The kitchen smelled like freshly baked pandesal and warm chocolate rice porridge. The living room walls were lined with faded photos of a much younger Lola and her siblings back in her hometown in Iloilo. I’d run my fingers over those pictures and imagine the stories she’d tell me about each one.

As I grew older—around twelve or thirteen—the house seemed smaller, its magic faded. My parents argued more often, the walls felt tighter, and I started craving space. When I wasn’t in school, I was at a friend’s house, at the basketball court, or walking aimlessly through town. Lola would wait up for me, her eyes heavy with concern but her voice light. “Where are you headed?” she’d ask, the same way she did now.

Back then, I never took it as deeply as I should have.

***

One evening, when I was fourteen, I came home late after hanging out with friends. Lola was sitting in her favorite chair, staring at nothing in particular. Her eyes lit up as soon as I entered the room.

“Where have you been, apo (grandson)?” she asked, her voice laced with relief.

“Nowhere, Lola. Just out,” I replied, shrugging off my jacket.

“You’re always ‘just out.’ Don’t you know where you want to go?” she said, half teasing, half serious.

Her words stayed with me long after I went to bed.

***

In the weeks that followed, I noticed how often she repeated herself. She’d ask about my school, my friends, and my plans for the weekend, forgetting that we’d already talked about them. She’d call me by my dad’s name, then catch herself and laugh. I saw how the vibrant storyteller who used to make the past come alive in her words was slowly retreating into herself.

***

When I was fifteen, we took a trip to where Lola grew up. Her childhood home was still standing, though the wooden walls were worn and weathered. She reached out and ran her fingers across the rough surface, her face unreadable.

“This used to be my home,” she whispered, almost to herself.

“You still call it home?” I asked.

She looked at me and smiled, the same knowing smile she always gave. “Home is where you feel you belong, apo. Sometimes, it’s a place. Sometimes, it’s people.”

I didn’t understand her words then, but I nodded anyway. The way she said it made me feel like she was trying to share something important.

***

A few nights later, I found her sitting on the porch, staring at the stars. I sat beside her, the silence between us thick with unspoken thoughts.

“Do you think you’ll find where you’re headed soon?” she asked, breaking the silence.

“I don’t know, Lola,” I admitted. “I don’t even know what I’m looking for.”

She laughed softly. “It’s okay. You’re still young. Just don’t wander too far. Home will always be waiting.”

Her words hit me differently that night. I realized that while I’d been searching for somewhere to belong, Lola had been my constant—my home—even as her memory started slipping away.

***

Now, every time she asks, “Where are you headed?” I pause, trying to think of the answer she deserves. Not just for her, but for myself.

Sometimes, I tell her about my dreams of studying architecture or my plans for the weekend. Other times, I just sit quietly, letting her question hang in the air as I think about how lucky I am to have someone who cares enough to ask.

Because no matter how much I’ve wandered or how far I’ve strayed, I know where my true home lies. It’s in her soft voice, her knowing smile, and the stories etched into the walls of her house.

And so, when she asks, “Where are you headed?” I look into her eyes and say, “I’m heading home, Lola. I’m heading home.”

Iloilo City by Janssen Panizales via Pexels