Finding Home

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...

March 1, 2020 "Kinsa imong gibisita Mam?" the Grab driver asks. Whose grave did you visit? "Akong Papa." "Unsa na ka dugay?" "20 years." "Aw dugay naman diay." So it has been quite a while. He said it in a manner that somehow tells me it is no longer as painful as it must have been before.   The driver’s words stung. I wanted to him to take back his comment but remained silent as he proceeded to tell a story of how his own father had died many years ago as well. I responded politely and listened to him but my mind drifted elsewhere.   I wept at my father's grave. "I forgive you. I miss you.   I still see your face, still hear your voice." One continuous stream of thought flowed from the core of my being spilling out of my eyes.  I hear the Grab driver’s own storytelling as if from a distance. Meanwhile I am unhinged by the barrage of emotions. A song plays from the car’s radio," Mutya ka Bale...