Personal Truth

Fiction. Its purpose is to find personal truth. The process of writing itself is an attempt to find truth that expresses human experience, which is always amorphous and changing. -Amy Tan

 

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Breathe, Grief

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My mother She kept everything: Notes handwritten on various paper pads Broken cups, worn-out pillows,  Old handbags,  cracked plates Love letters, greeting cards Curtains made of lace And here I was vacating, creating space One by one, garbage bags piled up "You need space to breathe," I told her She nodded, wordless, unmoving Her limbs weakened by the stroke she suffered just a week ago Her eyes watered in quiet protest Nine years later,  And four years since she passed I understand now This longing to keep things To hold objects, to grasp  As it reaffirms one's life,  that one became real that one truly lived Now I want to take it all back, the things I discarded to  make space for her  to supposedly breathe: Notes handwritten on various paper pads Broken cups, worn-out pillows,  Old handbags,  cracked plates Love letters, greeting cards Curtains made of lace I want to cram the space with everything she kept Leave no space for air So, I can...
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Bayabas (Guavas)

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  Bayabas There is enough for everyone The birds and me They peck at the topmost Where my hands can't reach They take only what they need I on the other hand or Perhaps most humans For that matter Take more than what is necessary I'm afraid there won't be Any left-- the sweetness The succulence, The joy of the experience So I want more to ensure I have a stockpile of pleasure Most humans too But the birds, they soar And I with most humans remain Standing on lowly ground.
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Kindness and Grief

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     Shortly after my mother died, a friend gave me wishbone flowers also known as bluewings to plant. She did not know that my mother absolutely loved flowers, orchids in particular. So, it was serendipitous as it was very kind. Planting flowers in our back garden became my anchor as I dealt with her loss. Being with them in the early hours of the morning with my first cup of coffee felt like being with her. Later in the morning I would pull out the weeds that grew around it. Touching earth was like holding her hand again. And as the sun poured over my back it was like her entire presence holding me steady.       After a couple of years, I had to uproot all the flowers I planted including the blue wings that my friend gave me because of a severe case of rhinitis that inflamed my left ear and affected my hearing. The pollen from the flowers exacerbated my condition. It was another kind of loss, yet again. Needless to say, I had to do it. Otherwise, my ...
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