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Food blabber

I've never before been a fan of okra. Eeew, just imagining the slimy and gooey feel of it on my tongue makes me sick. So I must commend my mother for her cooking prowess. Indeed, mothers do the greatest things. In my case, my mother has coaxed me into eating even the infamous okra that now to my taste ranks as one of the most delicious veggies I've ever eaten. Shame on me for avoiding this wondrous veggie for the longest time now.

Here's a picture. I'm sure it'll inflame your senses and provoke a drool from you.

Yum! Oh, I've also been eating brownies. But I've finished the last of it before getting the wit to take a picture to include in this post.

I'm btw on break and am back home. Although I'm happy to again be eating food that have been cooked with both a lot of love and skill, I'm afraid its downsides include my gaining back the weight I've just lost. :<

On Zola's Germinal

Germinal by Émile Zola


My rating: 5 of 5 stars




Germinal is the one story that made me feel all emotion. It accounts the general unfairness of the world with the separation of people into classes—conventionally the bourgeoisie or the masters, and the serfs and the slaves--and details on the conflicts between them. It also suggests ways upon which such a system could be abolished—presenting many socialist theories, mainly anarchy. In the end, though the capitalists remained victor, since the poor had so much more to lose, the book still gives off a sort of optimism—as it is spring at the time, and hosts a rising tide of a force that would soon surely ‘crack the earth asunder’. The poor have stepped back for now, starved and beaten after dismal months of staging a strike and inciting havoc in the community and the papers, but they refuse to remain the oppressed, and would in the future surely be saved by [another] revolution (seen as the ‘real’ one).

Germinal was most certainly tragic, but one has a lot to learn from it. At one point I’d find myself shaking with mirth, and then with anger and rage the next. My heart went out to the characters, especially to Alzire, at whose death I found myself with tears. I pitied the miners and hated them the same and was especially exasperated by Etienne—oh I do blame him for all that misfortune! And I liked the personality of Maheude as she seemed logical most of the time. When she was seized by bloodlust and ran around like a madman, just as the others, I failed to find this aggravating (as surely I would have and did with the others)—I saw it as simply as the need to release the pent-up emotions that have stocked on for long; she just could not contain it any longer. Catherine only irked me, for her ‘inherited ideas of subordination and passive obedience’ was outlandish (the girls were generally this way, and ‘planted’ with babies even as kids themselves). She was always ready to submit to her man, Chaval, with the simple logic that she was his, as he was the first to claim her.

The poor:

People were, as they have for a long time, held in check by the strength of the hierarchy—the military system which held them down, from pit-boy to overman, by putting each in the power of another. This explains why the Gregoires, one of the owners of the Montsou Mining Company, remained passive and unruffled by the strike, the strikers having a provident fund (though it was a petty one at the time of the strikeand at less than three thousand francs, failed to hold for long) and them joining the International and running all around the province making sure the strike was made general, as they were sure that the old system would remain the same. ‘Oh, I’m sure there is no real malice in them. When they have had a good shout they’ll go home with a better appetite for supper!’ Leon Gregoire only commented even he was trapped in the Hennebeau’s alongside the others, with an enraged thousand scores of people protesting outside. And the bosses seemed to be held in high regard by the miners, even with their detestable situation. There generally are decent people in all walks of life (Maheude said in a discussion with Etienne), and this included the bosses. The bosses were charitable and almost paternal and their one failing was the refusal to see how capitalism was killing off men for generations. They were even held in awe for ‘which the managing director inspired in his ten thousand employees’.

‘I’m all for calmness, it’s the only way of getting along, but in the end they drive you mad.’ Maheu, incensed, had exclaimed. With the coming along of Etienne though, things seemed to change.

Etienne has not been formally educated and he kept his insecurities at bay with the acknowledgement of the need for study. He was a self-professed leader of the miners who he managed to make believe in their ability to overthrow the old system which has gone on for more than a century. ‘When you want everything at once, you end up with nothing’, Rasseneur, jealous of the former’s popularity, told him. It was unfortunate that Etienne was carried along with the perks of being a leader and started to see himself as more than the people he was surrounded with, and not just one of them. His leading of the miners to fighting back was tainted by his ambitions and the hunger to be looked up to (the organization International achieved not much for this very reason). Souvarine (the destructive freak responsible for the destruction of Le Voyeux and the death of Catherine and 13 more others) has proposed in a hypothesis that even after the old system gets abolished, traces of the old system would just carry on naturally, and there again would eventually be a distinction between the rich and the hardworking, and the poor and the lazy. He therefore proposes complete anarchy, a view which coincides with one of Monsieur Hennebeau’s, ‘nonexistence as a way to happiness’.

The man was seen as the master in the house. A woman who was already married at the beginning of the novel was named with the female version of her husband’s surname (In French, everything was either masculine or feminine. There was no such thing as an ‘it’—seen as neuter in English). Maheude, despite her own strong character and obviously important role in the novel, was expected to submit to her husband’s whims—she stood there assisting him even as he ate. She also was expected to produce miracles to continually feed the family, as the hard-earned pay from work hardly sufficed for a family of 10.

Most women were seen as tarts, and picked up their first babies even when they were children themselves (Catherine had her first intercourse before puberty). As for the lack of resources and money to involve themselves in any other than work and the hard job to keep alive, sex and gossip stood to be the only forms of entertainment. An established family was often a big one.

Children, at the age of eight, or nine or ten, were expected to bring back to the family that has provided for them in their first years as useless good-for-nothing infants. When Catherine had run off to work at Jean-Bart with Chaval, Maheu, her father, defeated, simply threw his arms up in resignation, was not new to children setting off early, leaving their parents destitute.

There was a sharp contrast between the way of living of the poor, and the rich: highlighted off by Zola in his comparing the Maheus and the Gregoires. While the Maheu toiled underground in risks of killing themselves, they were often hungry—as they earned less than what’s needed to keep decent meals. They were immersed in credit, at Maigrat’s. The Gregoires meanwhile had not the need for work and stayed at home with earnings of forty thousand francs per year. Monsieur Gregoire was sure that even with this Catherine’s children’s children would keep living in luxury.

It also seemed that most people were not extreme believers, and had no inkling for deep faith in god, especially the poor. They had started to lose hope and thought that god was no more. Maheude exclaimed, ‘Surely we are finished!’ The proposition of a happier life in the next world was only laughed at.

Summing it up, Germinal was a great book--one to learn many things from. Although it almost drove me mad (I often found myself wanting to just rip and tear off the pages), it is one that I recommend that everyone should read. At times crude, moving, and always astonishing, it's a crucial eye-opener.






View all my reviews

Ranting about my first love

My courage—if it can even be called that—that has led to my deciding to post this here probably stems from the fact that no one other than me will be checking this humble, ‘ant-sized’, and thus trifling space in the relatively wide—arguably infinite—and continually expanding realm of cyberspace (talk about seeing parallels in line—oh em gee, does that make it redundant?—to discussing the universe by way of the big bang theory and, paradigm). Or if somebody ever did, it would probably be months, years from now and I then would be obsessed or occupied with other things to still be this overly sensitive about what has been written months, years back.

(Okay, if ever you’re there reader, and can’t stand long talk like this, I suggest that you skim over and directly read the story that follows this ranting section, although I’d very much appreciate if you actually read this 2, 100 plus long part.)

On a side note, I do not say this to mean that I would abandon writing altogether, one which to my opinion—and must be to everyone else—equals writing only a piece, an article, or anything short of missing a 200-character minimum (which does not always apply to every case, as by the mention of ‘writing’, I tend to by default generalize and refer only to strictly prose and fiction, as I do now) if only irrevocably, certifiably necessary. Instances when it’s either you write or get an INC or a 5.0—which for me have repercussions and consequences that I just could not afford. Or as I may just as lamely put it in other words, when school forces you to.

Well, getting back to my sentiment about [my] writing, I’d tell you how absolutely in love I am with the idea of being a writer. And not just any writer. One who is duly recognized, and internationally—credited for with an award, say the Pultizer, or the Booker Prize (at least I've no longer the need to pack up and start living in the UK and Ireland for this) to boot. In fact, I for a time (before we finally submitted our final and filled-out UPCAT forms) seriously considered picking BA Creative Writing as a course choice in Diliman. My mother has dissuaded me from the idea and although at times I feel kind of wistful for what might have been—these days I am forced to deal with the taxes and rigors of being a political science major (although I do not plan to stay one for long, and God help me, hope to be well in my way to a new college setting next academic year) and stick to plain, old, boring technical writing (although I might be taking this too far off, as there indeed is a way to giving a technical article its own flair and distinctive and even to a certain extent, fun style)—had I gathered the confidence and enough reasons to settle for this something because ‘I want it’, and not only because it’s the ‘logical, obvious, pragmatic, practical’ thing to do. I wonder at times how things would have been had I chosen to major in creative writing—although unsurprisingly such wonderings have diminished and turned briefer each time as of late (I recognize the clear need to taking a course that could get better secure me a high-paying job in the future, dismissing eventualities of a mismatch that unfortunately so commonly characterizes our country’s jobs industry). My love, as I have time and again proven and will forever know, for writing, amazingly, however does not cease.

I do not claim, however, that I’m the best there is. In fact what has spurred me to writing this post for this almost derelict blog (my most recent post harking back to June of last year) is my stumbling over a dear friend of mine’s blog—to your confidence I disclose as Ate Sandy’s—which has evoked in me feelings—nostalgia and frustration—that one could feel only for an object/activity one has totally the nuts for. Later on as I read on frustration came when I felt my own writing sorely lacking—too “so-so”—in comparison. Oh well. But I’ve got to say that Ate Sandy is ever [1] the meticulous, fluent and beautiful writer. (:

Sigh. Here I am again needing direction—as you see how scattered my thoughts are—but I just could not help it, especially as it is precisely already 10 minutes after 1 in the morning as I type the period after this word. I have, however, hopes of improving as I immerse myself in and engage myself more with the writing and reading world. I do so hope I in the least do not sound all whiny and lame right now—even with the lack of a reader, mind [2]. Aside from obvious reasons of taking a hedonistic approach to life—which at times I in one way or another have to, should, dismiss in the event of exams and schoolwork—this is the reason why I have again hooked up with scouring stories online, specifically ones from ffictionpresscom (a/the sister site of fanfictionnet). And I’ve found really wonderful and great—all the more so because they are free—stories, which I think I’ll go discuss in greater detail in my next (:D) post.

Okay, yes,… I finally remember. Earth to Aiko, hello, hello??! I should root myself more firmly to my conscious. The main reason for which this post has been supposedly originally written for is to share my experiences in taking Creative Writing 10 for the last semester. The experience has for me been both a pleasure and a pain; both a need, and a desire and want. A roomie from the last year has warned me to take caution in taking the said subject, practically because it didn’t turn out all too well for her. I’m not going to say things like ‘I don’t know what possessed me to enlist the subject despite all the warnings I’ve been, I’d say, kindly given’ though. I took it for simple and quite obvious (judging from the long score of words you’ve had to read to get here) reasons: 1. because I needed a GE, and I might as well have spent time for something that initially already had my interest going and 2. because I wanted to feel bold and reckless, and see how I would deal with the much-loved but exhausting, and to an extent fear-and-anxiety-inducing [3] activity of writing.

Okay I am fully aware that Creative Writing 10, however immensely great and biigg I’m making this sound, is only still just CW10. It’s probably nowhere near the subjects the hardcore writers in training in the university are taking, but the subject has at its close—ironically, clichéd but true—opened doors for me. Oh, I suddenly remembered the one short line that summed what was to come for Harry in the last chapters of the last book in the HP series: ‘Open at the close’. You do never get to fully appreciate such sayings if you hadn’t lived—experienced—them. And I’d say that I to an extent and a sense have.

My whole semester for CW10 has at times lagged, at times sped up enough to be taxing, but always inspiring, knowledgeable, and fun. Professor Emil’s plans initial plan was to make us write merely two key scenes from an earlier proposed story line—the climax and another left to our choosing—but after the quaint display of eagerness in our part (which I find myself, among the few, as guilty), has decided to expand the requirement to a full story.

Again my experience of writing this final story output has been a full-fledged journey, one that ensured me many sleep-deprived and stomache-raving nights [4]. One that has had me choosing over which subject to me weighed more, given the little time that I had [I eventually decided to first finish at least a draft of my final work, and latter on the final thing before for both instances studying for POLSC14, which has by the way, cost me a lot. My 90 to 94 resulting marks for the first two long tests for the said subject had been drained of any use for the hopes of getting me a 1.0, as I got only a 62 for the third long test. Although I would’ve loved the previous, I had no problem with what the need to—the want to—first finish the requirements for CW10 has amounted to. If anything, it has taught me that some subjects in some cases can take precedence over others, depending on your interest and with what you’re aiming for.]

The first story line I came up with was extracted—rather pityingly, as I later on realized—from a class session on the creation of characters. We were asked to volunteer in class tidbits and additional information about the person of the character we wanted to star in stories which like the first were also to be volunteered, and I found myself alone in the quest to developing this particular heroine (who in my attempts later on got labeled the name of Scarlett [5])—too volunteered by me—and the story with which to place her in. The plot got more and more complex (I must say that I was in that and those other moments being sentimental about particular generations-long epic stories that I’ve read before which influenced this move to complexity) but basically it was all about two sisters—one a rising star, both locally and internationally via commissions by Disney (I know LOL), and the other who leads a normal life which to her opinion crudely equals to her normality of character—that gets on a rift after their mother’s tragic death for which the first sister is indirectly impossible. I guess that I too had my sights on working on a novel, if not just a novelette, but since term equals only 5 months, such was highly improbable and not to mention insanely cruel (think of finishing all those chapters).

Imagine my woe at finally realizing we were to write a short story—although I probably knew that right from the very beginning. And later on I’m sure, relief at the reprieve from my initial assumption.

My second break at brainstorming for a story outline and plot came with a story from the roomie mentioned above. She talked about actual experience, heard from a friend. When the daughter of the old co-worker of her father died from an attack of meningitis, the father died later on due to grief. I tweaked this and finally, after many revisions, hours of mulling over, and crazy and tiring but fun nights of typing, below happened. Finally after four drafts of the same story (which deviated a little from the previous one in plot, but not in essence), below happened.

I so do hope you’re going to enjoy it. I do so hope you’ll cry. I’ve put a lot into the story below—and not just my time. And when I finally passed this story on the very date of the deadline, I felt anticipation and a thrill that I’d never felt before. Finally my first decent—if I may call it—shot at short story writing. Again, anticipation and thrill—to a level one can feel, reserved only for one’s love—which in this case is my first.

Before you get on with my story, let me just lay out before you these footnotes:

[1] I got this from a British teen in a story whose backdrop was laced and decorated by none other than war—between the Germans and the British—specifically near Birmingham or Coventry. ‘She is ever so pretty!’

[2] Same as [1]

[3] Now incorporated into my writing from Ate Sandy’s own cool and unique writing style.

[4] Just my look when I have to spend the chunk of the night and of dawn doing something other than sleeping. It is at this time of course that the gastric juices in one’s stomache normally have digested all of dinner in it. I’ve been eating Philippine brand dried mangoes all throughout my typing this post.

[5] I used to be crazy about Gone With the Wind which is told from the main character’s point of view—half-Irish and selfish Scarlett o’Hara’s. Oh well I still do now, am in love with it just as strongly, but I no longer act as crazy as I did in dealing with GWTW stuff i.e., fanfics.

*Full credit for picture goes to ~misteryscen from deviantart.

If you’re there reader, enjoy and cry, and please comment, either on this one, or about the section above. And please don’t plagiarize (pfft), well, if ever. XP Ask my permission for plans of reposting. And oh, I will be entertaining questions flung my way (like, ‘Why again the title?’). So ask away!

Oh also, I might revise something in the ending. A part there has caught my attention and isn’t quite right.

Final Story Output

Departures

I scoop up two more stacks of coins and stuff them into my pocket. The man, grumping now in a torrent of incoherent words, glares at me and moves to hover protectively over the remaining piles. I grin at this and thinking I’m getting something out of this after all, walk away, satisfied with the weight tugging at my shorts. I try to spy Carla in the crowd and glance at my watch. It is time to go.

Today is finally the perya’s last day in town, and the place, as it has been for the past few days, is packed.

I take in the sight before me, looking for the neon green-bright cap I saw Carla wear. It is almost midday and I sweat with the heat; the banderitas that hung all over on top look garish under the sun. I hear laughter, banter, and squabbles and cries on the side. A kid rejoicing over a balloon. A woman complaining about a lost purse. A few drunks, some singing and some threatening to fight. The dull sound of dices being rolled and shook.

I see numbers, someone shooting already heavily dented cans, small kids licking ice cream. One comes up to me, extending a grubby hand. As I drop some rusted coins onto his open palm, I glimpse the Ferris wheel some fifty meters away.

What must once have been a dark shade of blue was now white in some areas. Even from this distance I could see the peeling of the paint. But nonetheless I stop and still in place, just watching its slow, steady turning. Round and round…

I barely feel the touch of the kid’s hand as it brushes against mine, seeing only dots of blue and black and white.

Suddenly my heart gets gripped with ache, my mind with memories…

***

That day the perya came. And I was busy contemplating escape—of a Saturday of unbridled perya fun—to notice that the slabs of meat I had been tasked to fry were turning into a crispy black.

“You’re burning the chicken!”

“Oh..sorry!” I said, rigging and flipping the pieces.

“I slave away every day—preparing your breakfast, pressing your uniform, polishing your shoes—and yet you, given the simplest of tasks, can’t even do it right?

“I saw the papers you’ve carefully hidden under the fold of your pillow. You think you can hide this from me?” Her voice was annoyed and something else—the sound of defeat and knowing it—as she waved a sheet of paper up and about my line of vision.

“Uh…”

“72? Again?! You could at least have passed it!” And then she started muttering, “A daughter in UP, yes. But a son without a care in the world! How—”

“How did you know where to look?” I asked, my apprehension at being discovered well hidden under the whine in my voice.

“The bed was unmade.”

“Oh.” I groaned, but grinned to my discretion.

“How will you ever graduate high school?”

I shrugged noncommittally and continued with my task. Soon we were eating; I ate quickly. I stood right after I was finished and with the excuse, “Exams!” ran up the stairs.

“Which you better pass!” I heard her call from behind me.

“Yeah, yeah.”

I had just flopped down on my bed when Mama started calling from downstairs, asking me to wash the dishes. The ringing of a cellphone came then—in what I thought an opportune time—and I hurriedly searched for it, the demand in her voice prompting a speedy retrieval. The screen flashed the words ‘Sally Calling…’ and I hastened to answer it.

“Yes wait, Mama’s downstairs” I hurried down and thrust it to my mother, who at the sight of me started to gingerly wipe wet fingers with a wrap.

“Yes, hello dear.”

“I’d best be studying, believe me ma!” The last I caught of the conversation was Ma’s bewildered “Ha?”

The afternoon heat however soon became oppressive and I figured I could do with a glass of iced tea. But what I saw from the top of the stairs stopped me there. The baluster seemed all that kept Mama steady. I could see only her upturned lashes, which somehow glistened; and her nose and mouth, which were taut and pinched-looking.

I slowly descended the stairs, each step seeming heavier than the last.

My eyes traveled back to her face—or what I saw of it—seeing more of the unruly curls of hair that were now streaked with a few wisps of white. I was taller than Mama—I have been than all three women in my family since June—and my elevated position further widened that gap.

But has she always been this small?

She finally raised startled eyes to mine when I was but a step above her. “What’s up with Ate? She failed a course? Two, three?” Her breath came in small uneven puffs, and panic showed through her features.

“Lost her scholarship?”

Just then she grew rigid, and her eyes glassed with unshed tears. I was suddenly fraught with worry.

“A-am.” Upon which I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

“Your Ate’s–“ I thought I misheard her. But the word, despite being barely audible, rang surprisingly clear “—dead.”

“Huh? But she was in FB just last night!” I let out almost immediately, disbelieving, physically recoiling from this piece of news. My right hand hit the railing, and I heard a bubble of laughter flow from somewhere as soon as the pain registered. It turned out to be mine.

“I have to… Am, call your Father and get him home. And where’s your sister? That girl disappoints as always! I have to…” Before she could continue, the resounding alarms of the kettle of water she was boiling cut through both our thoughts. She immediately attended to it.

“Yes yes surely. Proof. Of course. I’ll have to call again. Or wait for another.” she said as she shakily loaded the water into the thermos, getting burnt in the process. She turned and smiled faintly at me before stalking out of the house, “I’ll get your sister.”

I myself could’ve called back to confirm if it were for real. But I gave in to waiting, even drawing comfort from it. I called Father.

“Clayton Minimart will just have to wait for their eggs,” he muttered before clicking off, taxed at my not saying what it was all about. He must’ve heard the tremble in my voice.

Minutes later the gate opened, screeching in protest; and Carla entered with jerky movements, pulling off shoes and forcefully throwing them into the rack. The shoes narrowly hit my poor excuse of a project I had, after hours of tedious work, decided not to pass after all. It was for physics class, a bridge made up of sticks.

“Careful!” my mother who was right out barked out at her and rushed to it to straighten out the sticks.

“And she ranted about throwing the thing away!” Carla exclaimed, exasperated.

The gate again screeched again at that, “What’s the matter?” Father’s voice boomed as he entered in long quick strides. Mama, her resolve faltering, broke down to the floor in a flood of tears.

“What now?!” my sister screeched.

“Ate helped me make that bridge last sem break.” I said, crossly looking at my sister.

Father knelt by mother; the arms that he placed on both her shoulders that rocked with her body’s movements were a futile effort for comfort. His eyes took in the black my hand held—shakily—and lingered there.

“Ate…”

“WHAT?!” My Father boomed, fear and comprehension mingling in his features.

“Someone called, okay?” I interjected, nervous at being given such a task. Taking in a deep breath, I continued “Someone saying that Ate’s dead.”

My sister gasped at the announcement and the glass of water she was offering Mama shattered on the floor, effectively piercing the short pause of silence that came after. My father barked at her to clean the mess, and ignoring the number of red that dotted his skin, stood and demanded that he be given the phone.

Mama was jolted to a sudden rush of words as Father redialed Ate’s number. She was frantic, deeming it important that her husband first hear her before someone came through the other line. “It was a friend, one from the dormitory. Name was Clara, Lara—I’m not sure. Says a car slammed into Sally in her attempt to save a kid by the side of the road. She was rushed to the infirmary but the impact had…had been too strong for her to handle. And that we are to expect a call from—“she was cut short by another phone’s ringing—Father’s.

“This could easily be a lie. Easily be a lie. Easily be a lie,” She chanted despite herself.

What came after forever changed the course of our lives. I would’ve laughed at my sister’s face. I found though, upon checking my inbox, my throat suddenly robbed of all sound.

Sender: ASally

PSST! IMming you and you aren’t replying. cutting classes again? i swear im gonna butcher your chickens myself as soon as im home. be my guest, I like chicken meat myself.

And yet as I braced myself for impact as I too fell on the ground in a rush of tears, the worst was yet ahead.

When hope dies, what else lives?

While the man was still on the run as we were, it was unfair. He managed to escape and evade capture, unbound by the infinitely cutting effects of his deed while we—and whatever certainty there was in life—remained in this black abyss none knew how to escape.

The weight of the loss and our grief continued to settle on us even months after we finally lowered Ate to her rest. It dictated our lives, stalked us until I thought we were going crazy. As Father’s temper became more and more volatile; he started drinking, alternating between moods. He and Mama fought harder than ever before, at the slightest mistake and slip, even over the grittiness of the rice.

When they did, Carla would creep to my bed with a pillow in tow, and I would visualize the shabby lines of the kulambo as I traced it in the dimness of the room as my parents shouted at one another below. Between my chanting “Things will be okay” and my sister’s quiet sobbing, we would both fall asleep.

Every time father stormed out of the house after each of my parents’ fights, Come back, I would call to him, willing him to turn around.

But he never did.

Pretty soon, my and my sister’s little ritual became routine.

Later on I realized that school was a comfort, which for me was a peculiarity. But with the problems that pressed down on me at home, I yearned for the quiet miracle of once again leading life normally—even if that meant studying at night.

But I still yearned for Father. I wanted reassurance. While mother was a constant presence, an endless number of chores—even tending the store at some days—filled her days. But Father, angry and bitter at the world—even presumably at us—couldn’t offer us any.

He had been inconsolable the first time he had seen Ate’s body. He trashed and had hurled things in a frenzy of rage—Mama had swooned when a handheld mirror hit Ate Sally on the leg—and it had taken an uncle and a neighbor to restrain him, and he had been asked to sit or be forced out of the room. Struggling from their hold, he had exited himself, going even more berserk outside. I had closed my eyes to the sound.

Except for the paleness, the occasional blue and discoloration on some parts of her face and neck, Ate had looked pretty much the same. There had been that same groove down her upper lip, the same unwanted flat of her nose. I had remembered her black irises that always seemed to sparkle. Her lids however remained stubbornly close, and I had cried.

I thought how Father must have, with every purple that blotted her pale skin, with every stiff line that lined her frame; thought of all those fifteen-minute calls, which, short as they were, were full of talks of graduation, of the expansion of Mang Dado’s Eggs. The promise of a lifetime gone.

Home then after that was no more than that one marked with that black wreath on the front door, of madness, of two children trying their best to cope up.

One day though I instead woke up to laughter. Ignoring my aching neck, I raced down the stairs, my heart pounding in my chest in a loud, unsteady rhythm.

And there they were. Mama and Carla each holding a steaming mug of milk. Father cooking, his back to us. I smiled, bidding them a good morning as I tentatively walked to them.

“Come on hurry up, boy. You’ll be late again.” Father said as he turned.

“What happened to him?” I asked Carla in a whisper.

“He had a dream,” Mama must’ve heard me for she replied, albeit drily. She sighed and finally smiled.

“What about?” I asked as I walked to the bathroom, not caring to wait for any answer. Unang Hirit showed on television, and I found the voice of Love Añover as irritating as I always have. But I was happy, hopeful again, and was smiling as I finally closed the bathroom door behind me.

And this did last. Nights later, we talked of getting to the beach on the weekend. Suddenly Carla, at that time insisting in that imitable way of hers on instead going to the newly constructed resort some kilometers away—the beach being full of strays—didn’t seem irritating at all. I would’ve agreed to go anywhere though. Anything to not spoil the moment.

On the afternoon the next day we had a pop quiz, but I surprised myself at not finding the questions impossible to answer. Later on I was smugly smiling at the big lanky 89 in red when the gate screeched in opening. It was a far cry from what Ate would’ve surely gotten, but it had to do. But still, especially with my parents starting to patch up…

“Melissa!!”

Father was drunk!

My smile went as he staggered his way towards a chair. Mother again looked weary, and she signaled that we go upstairs. We climbed only the first few steps.

“I thought we were going to the pool tomorrow.”

“Oh, we are,” he drawled out in protracted drunk speech. His head dropped.

Mama, although much smaller in frame and size, nonetheless bent to assist Father. She sneezed, and went red at that. “You promised!” She slapped Father soundly on the face and Father, shocked but drunk the same, boxed the air in front of him to ward off the attacker, soundly catching mother by the arm.

I was enraged. And very much disappointed. Crumpling the paper into a ball, I threw it straight at Father, not caring if this added to his rage.

“Are you alright, Mama?” my sister asked with scrunched brows as we ascended the stairs, Mama with us.

“Yes,” she said in silent tears, withdrawing the bruised arm away.

Carla again cried herself to sleep that night. But I was still much surrounded with my own anger to pay her any heed.

She was still sleeping when I woke up the next day, to an eerily silent house, one which I almost was grateful for. I wouldn’t have borne it if I again heard another of my parents’ quarrels.

I came upon Mama crying in the bathroom, arms extending to her mouth to stifle back cries. She paused at my intrusion, and lifted weary eyes to me.

“Ma…”

She closed her eyes for what seemed like a very long time—the moisture in her eyes freely sliding down her cheeks—but when she opened them, the resolve in them was frightening.

“Am, boil four cups of rice and fry some of the fish. I should like to see to the house. There are cobwebs now on the ceiling.” She said with quiet strength, standing up. I regarded this newfound strength, although silently.

“Okay,” I said finally, turning to leave. But before I could, she called me back to her and engulfed me in a quick embrace.

“Thank you Am. You’re a brave boy.”

Later that day, when a close friend of Mama’s had stopped by to talk, by virtue of well-strained ears, I learned of Father’s mistress. I quickly went back upstairs lest she caught me, and descended only minutes later.

Father came home close to noon days after. He was shaven, clean and fresh in a shirt and jeans. He first took a deep breath and reached to his pocket as he reached the table. It was the crumpled paper I’d thrown at him in anger the other night. He unfolded it.

“Never knew you had it in you, boy.”

“That was two weeks ago. I’m sure I failed yesterday’s exams.”

He dropped his head dejectedly, I hope with shame. And suddenly, he was crying, openly and without inhibition. I was at once alert. He hadn’t for months, since the casket has been lowered to the ground. Suddenly it all came back. The freshly dug earth. The awful first few days. No, please—

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry…” I was still angry at him. But as Carla rushed to hug him, I found the lull of an embrace with Father irresistible. I too was enmeshed in the tangle of arms and sweat and liquid. Weeping all our hurts, but at the same time happy and aware of the knowledge that whatever has come to pass, we had one another.

Father draped an arm over mother, she capitulated, she cried, albeit in stiff lines.

There was a way to survive this after all. Father will have to earn back Mama’s trust. I smiled at the thought of seeing him do it.

November was a good month.

We spent Christmas laughing, relishing memories. Tears came, but they were not of misery.

Occasionally Father slipped to his darker moods, and fights supervened each time. But I wasn’t worried. He went back to daily handling the store himself. I saw his efforts at reconciliation, of patching that void within himself and that in the family, engaging in normal activities. And if all things again failed, there was Mama, enduring and heartening by her presence alone.

One fine January morning, I was finally on my way home after a long day of exams. The neighbors looked at me probingly as I neared home, but I ignored them.

And came the shout.

My blood turned cold and I felt my insides curl up. It was unmistakable in its pain, unmistakable in its lament, and was expressed in an all dominating rage. And unmistakably Father’s.

I ran the few steps home. Father was crumpled on the floor, wild sobs racking his body, seeming half-crazed. Another howl came yet again as soon as I stuck a foot through the door. I shivered.

But he was soon exhausted, reduced to but despairing whimpers. When he spoke, his grief was plain for all to see, and cracked as his breathing hitched at his throat.

“Sally…Sally… Why, Why?!”

I had to strain my ears to hear the words muffled behind his cries.

“All this time, I thought she concerned herself only in study… My hardworking, lovely daughter. All this time. I thought, I thought…” he muttered low, in apparent agony.

Mama sat at the foot of the stairs, and she too was crying. Both still didn’t notice me standing there.

“But she was busy with other things.. All this time, I thought…”

“It’s as if you blame her for dying.” Mama said quietly.

“She didn’t have to die, did she? She killed herself!” he drew a fist to his chest. “She killed me!”

“No one dies willingly, oh surely not by suddenly being run down by a car. And our daughter… I know her energy for life. She would have—“

“Precisely why we’ve cautioned her against boys, against joining those goddamned organizations in the first place! That girl from the sorority. You saw her tattoos!”

“Yes, but I thought her sincere.” her voice broke as she continued, “And yes. Our daughter’s zeal, passion for life, her healthy drive to try new and other things. We tried the best we can. For 19 years we have..We should’ve known better than try to contain it. It was unfortunate—”

“What are you saying? That this be all a question of luck?” Father asked, vehemently pounding a first to his chest. “That all this pain be of misfortune?”

“It doesn’t change a thing. She’s gone and that’s that.”

“But she was murdered! Murdered in cold blood, your first born!!” he shouted in a rage. “My poor, poor daughter…” My fingers and toes tingled; I felt cold. Murdered?

“Ah well yes, I’ll try not to think of that...for her to get entangled in other people’s mess like that…” Mama heaved a sigh and continued, “But I do think of her—more so now that—” she choked out and continued in a whisper, “I think of her when she was just two years old. I think of her taking those first baby steps, of my dismay at not having been endowed enough milk to breastfeed her. Of her saying Mama,” she looked at him “and Dada.”

Father went mute, and taking in a deep breath, broke down to more agonizing sobs. I felt their pain—and mine. Mama continued:

“She made me so proud. I think of her always. My lovely, lovely daughter. I still could not believe I’d lost a daughter. I’ll always feel this void in me. She, dead…and us…Look at us.” At that, she turned her head to the door and saw me, with the newly arrived Carla watching with mute tears.

“Mama... Pa…” she said.

Father raised startled eyes to the door. “At your children,” Mama added. Father only sobbed. Mama again spoke.

“No, I can never accept it. Who can? They should capture that man. Even he rotting in prison is not enough. But what else can I do?” she stopped and heaving another sigh, smiled faintly at Carla and with me. With tears still freely running, she beckoned us to her. “Come here. You’re late, I’m hungry. Am, go and cook four cups of rice.”

***

A tap on my shoulder. Soft, but I feel it. And then a haze of colors, of brown and green and black. I hear laughter, and the outline of a curly mop of hair.

I see a girl with black eyes sparkling with mirth, jumping away from a little boy’s flailing arms in vain hopes of getting another bar of chocolate. And a woman coming up to them, her tone scolding, but her eyes amused. The boy sticks his tongue out at the girl when the woman reaches for the bar of chocolate and divides it between them.

Another tap, harder this time. The noise of roulettes, of dices, of incessant chatter, of drunks singing… Another hard tap. I hear an “Arrghhh!” and I blink.

Finally I see a neon green-bright cap. Carla. Pulling messy locks of hair in frustration.

I heave a sigh and signal at her to follow me, leading the way out of the area.

Time, I believe, does not heal all wounds. It simply gives one the opportunity to patch up that gnawing void with new memories—perhaps ones to smile at—to even out the weight of the last.

“Arrgh!! I lost in all the games I played. The perya, all it has given me are… annoyance, a now empty pocket, and a load of problems! Oh Am, do you happen to have a hundred pesos in there?” she tittered as she eyed my bulging side pockets. “Um..I kind of borrowed some money I found on top of the shelf this morning. I… I hate the perya! Good that it’s finally leaving town!” she says as we walk.

Ate…

I casually wipe away the tears that have fallen with the knuckles of one hand. I wince at Carla’s shriek, “You’re crying?!”

“No, dust.”

“So will you give me a hundred pesos?”

I do not answer and instead continue on with quick, long strides, unable to stop myself from grinning at Carla’s whining as she runs just to keep pace. I managed to graduate two months ago, albeit barely. And now I am eager to finish the last of my packing. University might not be a trendy plane ride away but still, I could not deny my excitement.

A cap, I’ll have to bring my cap… I squint at the sun, frowning at the heat.

“Hey Am, can I come with you tomorrow? Father’s driving you!”

“He’ll for sure again be drunk,” I quip.

“Oh, but I heard him! He’s promised Mama he’ll be sober!”

I feel the flush of the wind as we run, oddly both hot and cold at the same time.

No, time, I believe, does not heal all wounds. But we do the best we can.

fin.