Gaps, patches and in-betweens

This morning, I look in the mirror and who do I see? My older self, marked with more lines Looking back at me. I try to rub one that I thought was an eyelash But it wouldn’t go away. So I check for crow’s feet, There they are, I must say, not as deep, but determined to stay.  Ya, I laugh and cry a lot, and sometimes cannot sleep Or I make up too many faces throughout the day And when I think and speak. My hair is still black, which makes me think, Maybe I should just go ahead and color it pink. I feel work pains stabbing the sides of my nape Or maybe it’s just my body telling me to get in shape. The reflection transforms into the faces of my girls Then to my partner, then of Mama and Papa; Which cross-fades to the young women I laughed with, in Montevista. It segues to the 17-year-old on the indigenous maternity bed To the things I need to do, what to write, how it should be said. The image focuses back to myself, wrinkled, almost gray...

I don’t have work today (Saturday) but the neighborhood bustle would not let me sleep in so I thought I’d get some breakfast at the corner karinderya. I was trying my best to blend in, unnoticed among the loud, hyper, working youth having breakfast before going to work.  Blending in was fairly easy...until I opened my mouth to order. I was born and bred in Manila, so Tagalog is my mothe r tongue. That tongue twists, turns, softens, and hardens, depending on where I am and the accent of the people around me, which I assimilate at times. But I’ve only been here in Southern Philippines for less than three days.  When a young man (early 20s) imitated the way I ordered, and I heard the words “You’re so conyo,” I was transformed into my arrogant middle-aged self. Oh, well. I tried. To hell with that. I was quietly minding my business, ordering softly. When that young man raised his voice for more people to hear him speak the way I do, that was it. I looked inward, quieting myse...

I miss Papa here in the land of the living. And I feel that he is enjoying watching me make a grand fool of myself over struggles, decisions big and small, my feeble attempts at domesticity, and restraint in holding back tears that sometimes would threaten to overflow once in a great while when my heart remembers him. I can almost feel him holding out his hand should I lean back, or trip, or giving me that look that can still make me freeze and think - uh-oh, what did I do/or not do now? And I miss holding his soft hand that would shoo me away if I tried to overdo my caregiver role. I miss looking into those angel eyes that, during his last days, had no reflection of me, as he was having a hard time focusing and recognizing. Those eyes that at times clouded with confusion on who was there, where was he, and what was he doing, or what was I doing hovering over him. Those eyes that lit up if he recognized your voice as the sides creased with laugh lines if you were witty...

Ben Llanza, Sr. was a good man. He was generous even when he himself was wanting. He was proud, even he was in need and there was no room for pride. He was not a teacher but he has taught me and so many others so much, even when the lessons were incidental and at times buried too deep among stern commands, strict rules, light words and jokes. He armored me with a sense of humor that would see me through rough days such as these. He taught me to laugh heartily and always look at the bright side, and he always eased my worries. He taught me respect and equality, treating all of us, nieces and nephews included, as his children, and the store tambay the same as he did politicians. As his "students" at the "eskuwelahan ni Pay Ben (Uncle Ben's school)" as cousin Manoy Buboy called it during the last night, we are now fuller human beings, some literally, some figuratively. He helped develop our general sense of humor and creative language as we learned iro...

Of course, she would forget today Or a while ago Or just a few minutes And only remember the good times Why shouldn't she? I want to. "I am an X in an indeterminate equation. And that X is the rock upon which I stand." - Mario Puzo

Read the pauses slowly and miss not the unspoken. Feel the tension described through colors  the anticipation is hidden in the punctuation. Did you faint with despair when her mind switched off letting Alzheimer's take over because it takes too much to look at Truth in the face but you can when it is through old people's unfocused eyesight or a young girl's wonder from behind pages or closed eyelids. The world moves. The right side thins as the left thickens progress recorded by wrinkles on the leaves but how I hate dog ears. Read me slowly when I wake up to a muddled world of deja vu. The same characters wonder when was the last time they were there, and I wonder where they go I still see their shadows. Do not lie like the title. I used to trade sleep to devour words but you have been speed-reading. 5:49am February 11, 2014 "I am an X in an indeterminate equation. And that X is the rock upon which I stand." - Mario Puzo