I just had the sweetest vision of my lovely mom, cooking up one of her famous Filipino dishes, probably adobo (made with marinated meat, soy sauce, vinegar, and spices), one of Dad’s favorites. She’s standing by this shiny white stove, stirring her magic into a simmering pot. The rich, savory, and yummy aroma curling into the air, filling the room like a warm hug.

Mom’s wearing one of her colorful print dresses, paired of course with her red silk dancing shoes. Just one pair from her extensive collection. She’s smiling, swaying her hips to some invisible beat, like the kitchen was her own little dance floor.

And then just like a scene from one of those old romantic movies Dad appears to her side. Mom turns, and there he is, arms wide open. He pulls her close, twirls her around. His clothes are perfectly pressed, shirt tucked in, belt just so. That grin of his? As wide as Mom’s. And no walker or medication in sight, as they spin around like it’s another Friday or Saturday night in Texas, where they went to dances religiously.

Cue my happy tears.

I can still picture them: socializing with their friends, feasting on buffet spreads, living in that beautiful rhythm they shared for so many years. It fills my heart, and my siblings’ too, with so much joy. And that’s exactly why I felt so strongly about documenting their stories.

That little project of mine became SalEden, a small but mighty paperback full of their tales: from childhood mischief, family struggles during World War II, living the American dream, and all the beautiful, hilarious, triumphant, and even serendipitous moments in between.

Like the time Dad landed an engineering job in New York City. He was literally pounding the pavement, dressed professionally, wandering near Grand Central Terminal, when fate brought him to a building where he knew someone worked. This friend helped Dad to land a Structural Engineer job. Or the many times Mom, as a young girl, would accompany Nanay (my grandmother) at open-air markets to sell burlap tote bags that Nanay creatively made from burlap sacks. Tatay (my grandfather) brought the sacks home from the brewery where he worked. 

I started this journey in 2017 with simple phone calls to Mom. She loved telling her stories, and I loved hearing them. Sadly, she passed away in 2023 before I could show her the finished book. Dad was still with us when it was published, but his declining health (until his death last year) meant he couldn’t fully grasp what we had accomplished. Still, I know they’d both be proud.

Interviewing Dad was like listening to a gentle storyteller. He’d close his eyes, take a moment, then share memory after memory. Occasionally, Mom would chime in from the background to correct him (of course she did).

It truly was a family affair. My brother, my sisters, and other relatives all pitched in—sharing stories, reviewing drafts, adding those little details only family can remember. I even had a friend help me polish the editing.

The final book is wrapped in symbolism. The cover is a bold, beautiful red—their favorite color. My photograph, Vintage Rose, graces the back. Mom loved roses. And front and center? A picture of my parents dancing, frozen in pure joy.

Sure, someday I’d love to revise the chapters, fix a few things, maybe add even more stories. But for now, I’m simply grateful that their stories are finally captured. Documented. Ready to be handed down to future generations. Because that’s really what it’s all about. Holding onto the stories, the love, the legacy.

And in many ways, that’s exactly why I love photography.

Photography is my way of capturing the feelings, the small glances, the light hitting just right. The tiny, quiet seconds that say everything. Just like writing SalEden, I photograph to hold onto the essence of moments I don’t want to forget.

Keep dancing, Mom and Dad! Your love and spirit will live on forever in our hearts.