BALAY: The Westernian Advocate Literary Folio

Cover by Angelo Mendenilla Arguelles Hall Basement, University of Batangas, Hilltop Rd., Brgy. Kumintang Ibaba, Batangas City 0905-220-66-68, [email protected] ADVO FOLIO IS THE FIRST ISSUE OF THE WESTERNIAN ADVOCATE, A.Y 2021-2022



‘BALAY’ is the 14th edition of EKWILIBRIYO, the Literary Folio of The Westernian Advocate, the official student publication of the University of Batangas. No part of this collection may be reproduced in any form or by any means without written permission of the publication.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is coincidental.

Prose 4 12 Icarus has fallen 19 Wow, chiks 23 Ugoy ng duyan All-nighter 31 Nang minsan tumapak ang isang hampaslupa 40 sa sementadong siyudad 45 Pop-Corny 51 Don’t tell Gaia 62 Minsan, okay lang maligaw 68 Perlas ng Timog Avenue 76 The Crown Thief 98 Kunyari magic 112 Vanity Mirror 123 Sculptures and their red endings 128 PC4 131 Anniversary gift 143 Chasing Jane 152 Pulot Pukyutan 157 Playing house 161 A prodigy’s misadventures down south 166 The Butterfly Effect 171 Sa pagitan ng mga bala 177 Window Shopping Ada

CONTENTS Poem 15 18 Hand me the bow to shoot arrows 27 Banal na pagtatanghal 29 Genesis 44 Ex-con 59 Let the bedbugs bite 60 Sunny Side up 73 Kisapmata 108 Falling, like a house of cards 109 The roses, I dance over in an empty ballroom 120 Bahay-bahayan 122 Young man, play me a sad tune 140 Ang Pangarap na Samgyup 142 Once, in the silence of the slums 150 Kumpisal 163 On the tune of a broken record 165 Toy kingdom 175 Of treads with threads 176 Dalawang dulo 180 On Sundays, we mourn the living No one thinks about you

i Introduction Alyssa An, Literary Editor Humans are naturally defensive. Some defenses include standing still, we do not move to let it bleed. But most of us run away and use fantasy as a means of avoiding conflicts and problems of daily living. We build a wall and protect ourselves from hurting as we cherish this beautiful escape. There, we find peace—a certain comfort pushing us to fly without wings and grow our horns without earthly rules. We are free. We are supposedly free. But, freedom entails responsibility. Millions of thoughts are bugging our mind, thousands of them are about the future and the rest are memories of our past. And the thoughts come-forth in the present battles the reality, don’t want to be defeated. As people continuously combating against the inner thoughts many are gone, missing. There are many stories that remind me about the consequences of escaping. One is a vicious journey of a woman who found herself naked, waking up unconscious on the chaotic road. She once felt heaven where everything is harmless and warm after a leaf-intake. One is just an exciting voyage of a young kid travelling towards the finish line of a racing competition on an academic track— dodging failure like he’s a thirty years expert. Yet, I want to write my own version about how beautiful escape is. I believe we ran away to be lost and to be found. Escape is not always for the weak, it is also for those who are chasing

ii something—somewhere they would feel they belong, a place they would call home or a space ready for abduction and abandonment when everything falls apart. Now, let me tell you a story. The first time a girl lost herself in her own world was just eighteen. Let’s say she is kindhearted, well-mannered, has a good posture and can do things most cannot. Like god created her flawless, perfectly designed to be the standard. Yet, she remained unfocused as her existence was determined by religious sacred scriptures, feeling that freedom of choice was snatched from her. Curiosity leads her to live out of the biblical context. She took off her boots and tried to live on someone else’s shoes. Upon her journey, she met a friend who is devoted to her faith praising god like no other. They have no restricted rules to follow, they just need to worship. From the moment she stares at the altar, singing their glory and kneeling, there’s a voice inside her head telling ‘leave, it is not for you!’. In a nanosecond, without a second thought she leaves. Maybe, she doesn’t need a religion to feel herself. Then, the next person she meets is an atheist—the ruler of the world, mediating believers and non-believers where life is driven by moral instincts. Thinking gets hard as drowning in a water full of mud. There are questions on existence, unanswerable. Only infinite beings are capable of the answers. Again, she fled-- like a blank paper, no words are written. Not until she encountered the Agnostics, human beings who are God believers but not attached and committed to any religion. There, she felt most of herself. No complaints, no sculpture to pay tribute to, no saints ascending in heaven, no hell for sinners--just her and God communicating. She was now found and will never be lost again. For a young girl like her, braving a step against the norm is a risky move. But, nothing is worthy after a great triumph against your doubt in your own reality. Where the price is gold and winning feels like you are in the middle of the crowd and roses are being thrown at you.

1 Photo | Nicole Beatriz Rosales

2 Ang pagharap sa bawat araw ay gaya ng aking paglalayag na kahit minsa’y marahan, nahihirapan pa rin sa pagsagwan. -Katherine Nicole Lontok

3 Joviallyn Belegal

4 Icarus has fallen (A sequel to We never owned the metro) by Clark Alduz Viray Part I: Simon The wailing of his mother, followed by his father’s heavy footsteps woke Simon up. Despite the warmth caused by the late March air, which has caused sweats to form in his face and has settled in the folds of his thighs and armpits, Simon was embraced by coldness as he hastily left the comfort of his bed. Something is not right. Simon followed the sound of his mother’s cries—his younger brother’s room—and saw their mother cradling his brother’s body. At first glance his twelve year old sibling was the epitome of peace as his still budding body rose and fell, following the uneven rhythm of his breathing. It is past four in the morning, Simon’s brother must be lost in the realm of dreams, so what’s the problem? The bitter realization hit Simon as he noticed his father’s eyes. His father is a silent person and barely shows emotions but today, those unfeeling eyes show fear as they stare at the hands of his brother where multicolored bruises are slowly becoming visible “Ma, what’s happening?” Simon’s mother paid no attention to him as her sobs got louder and louder. She kept cradling Simon’s brother, rocking him gently as if he is the most fragile thing in the world. That night, time stood still for the four of them. Simon’s mother kept screaming hysterically-her cries echoed in the eggwhite colored walls of their house, as Simon’s father remained fixed on his position. A solitary tear fell down from his father’s right eye as Simon watched, confusion and shock engulfing him. Simon’s brother is patient zero.

5 Almost a month later, after Simon’s brother finally succumbed to the virus, Simon’s heart was filled with dread when he looked at the bathroom mirror in their unnervingly silent house. For the eyes that stared back at him was that of an unwelcomed stranger. Outside, the air is filled by the cries of mourning mothers, as their loved ones fall prey to the man-made virus that will eventually wipe out more than two thirds of the world’s population. Fear, for Simon, is the most lethal power someone can possess. The man in front of him, who is naked from the waist up and bleeding from the cuts all over his body, is proof of this. From what Simon heard, the sobbing man is one of the top agents of the organization who allegedly found a cure for the virus that has left the whole world in shambles. “Please, I have a daught….” Simon’s left fist connected with the man’s jaw, followed by the cracking of bones as blood gushed out of the man’s mouth. It has been two tiresome hours, and the interrogation is going nowhere. No amount of pain or threats seemed to work. It is either he is unbelievably loyal to the organization, or he really knows nothing about the said cure. Either way, this man is wasting Simon’s time. As the man started whimpering once more, disgust filled Simon. Stripped of their guns and other weapons, these men are nothing. They are mere puppets, useless outside the sphere of control of their superiors. As the stench of the man’s urine filled the room, Simon threw one last look at his prey before lowering the vintage sunglasses that had been covering his eyes all this time. “Time’s up,” Simon snickered as he showed his victim his eyes. The man, despite the little strength left in him, struggled and squirmed in the rusty chair he was bound in as fear started consuming him. Drool and snot mixed with blood started flowing

6 from the soldier’s mouth and nostril. His eyes rolled on his sockets as he started convulsing, his body getting lost in a sea of spasms. The chair, as a result of the man’s uncontrollable convulsions, fell with a loud cracking sound on the floor. As Simon started walking away from his latest victim, a sinister smile crept in his face. Many cursed the virus for taking their beloved ones, not knowing that an extremely small portion of those who contracted the virus and survived, have their genes altered and are currently living with special abilities. Simon’s smile faded as he reminisced on how his parents became his first victims. He threw one last look at the man, who was thrashing and screaming on the ground, for it reminded him of how his parents looked three years ago. “Pathetic.” Simon spat on the ground, willing the image of his own parents’ descent to insanity, to go away. The illusions concocted by Simon’s ability usually wear off after two hours, and his victims will recover bit by bit in the next few days. And they will have no recollection of who gave them their worst nightmares. That is why Simon had to leave their house. After recovering from the illusions he instinctively created for his parents, Simon’s identity was removed from their memories. He is a ghost, a stranger, to them. Since then, Simon has been travelling around the dystopian landscape, in hopes that he can rid himself of the curse he now possesses. Simon woke up at around four in the morning. Tears streamed down from his iridescent eyes, as he covered his mouth to silence the sobs coming from him. Man up, you fucking coward! He has been having the same dreams for more than two years. He is around five years old and is lost in a cornfield, screaming for his parents. He is running, his skin getting scratched by the prickly

7 bristles of the corn plants around him. In this recurring nightmare, he cannot find a way out of the mazelike field, and his young heart is already filled with dread. But somehow, he will see the familiar silhouette of his parents. He will scream for their attention and in slow motion, they will look at the lost boy with bruised knees, his green plaid shirt filled with dirt and bits of dry leaves. But comfort will turn to confusion and sadness, as his parents look at him the same way someone stares at an intruder. They have forgotten their own flesh and blood. The dream will end with the vivid image of a young Simon, hugging himself, rocking back and forth as his parents walk away. Despite the coldness as his feet meet the tiled floor, Simon went to the bathroom to wash his face. As he saw his handsome, yet much hated by him, reflection in the bathroom mirror, anger consumed Simon as he punched the glass. He paid no heed to the tiny shards of glass that flew towards him, or the pain that filled his fist. He kept punching the mirror until he could no longer feel his fist no more. Until the crimson blood that flowed from his broken fist masked his reflection’s eyes. After the ordeal, he sat down on the ice like marble floor and hugged himself—the same way his younger self hugged himself in his dreams—and cried himself to sleep. Part II: Angela Three hours later and less than two miles away, Angela is wide awake and crying. She is grieving for whoever that young boy in her dream is for she shares his pain and sadness. As she wiped the tears that fell down her eyes, she prayed that the stranger in her dreams would soon find peace. Since surviving the still unnamed virus that killed her whole family, Angela made it a personal vow to help those around her in any way she can. She joined a small faction of soldiers and civilians

8 whose goal is to find the man whom they were told has developed a natural immunity to the virus. She serves as their nurse and at times, strategist. It was during this time that she discovered that something had changed in her. She considers her ability as a gift given by God, though she still hasn’t found any practical use of the said ability. Somehow, surviving the virus gave her the power to share other people’s dreams. During the nights, she grew accustomed to having strangers’ dreams and nightmares flooding her sleep. She cannot control whose dreams she will have. Angela likes to think of herself as a dreamcatcher who shares the sadness and happiness of others. But the sad truth is, she is only a vessel for other people’s dreams and nightmares, for she cannot have a dream of her own. At nights when she, by sheer luck, is not visited by other people’s dreams, her mind is an empty slate. After composing herself, Angela stared at the time in her barely working watch, and decided to take a quick jog and then visit a special place. In the months following the death of her whole family, Angela found solace in this house. She was told that the previous owners have left the city following the death of their son. She can understand their eagerness to distance themselves from the place that will always remind them of the loss of their loved one. Angela has been there before. But still, this house brings her comfort. There is something about its faded cream paint, antique mahogany furniture, and its overall emptiness that enchants Angela, that is why whenever she feels sad, she pays this place a visit. She stared at the locked gates for a moment and uttered a short apology for her intrusion before picking the rusty padlocks of the gates. To her surprise, she found that the locks were already unlocked. In her visits to this desolated home, she is always alone, that

9 is why she is feeling mixed emotions as she felt for the dagger hidden in her back. She entered the gate and closed them as silently as she could before surveying the grounds. She suspects that the intruders are looters who are ransacking the house for supplies, and if she is right, there should be one lookout. After seeing no movement or the sounds of footsteps, Angela walked towards the door. She is already holding the doorknob, ready to enter the house, but someone pushed it from the inside. As Angela instinctively took a step back, she lost her footing and uttered a short lived cry as she hit the ground. “What the…” As Angela was standing up, she saw the intimidating silhouette of a tall man. He is extending his hands towards him, and Angela’s adrenaline kicks in as she reaches for her dagger. The man, realizing the danger, tried to evade the glittering blade of her weapon. A string of profanity filled the silent doorsteps of the house as the dagger barely missed the man’s arms. Angela took the opportunity to stand up and hit the man again, this time, aiming for his face. Angela was no good with weapons. Sure, she carries a dagger and occasionally, a gun, with her but up to now, she hasn’t encountered any reason to use them. As she tries to hit the man, she is fueled by nothing but sheer adrenaline and fear. She felt the blade hit something metallic as the man grabbed her hands. “Why the hell are you in my house!” As the stranger’s voice reached her ears, the rational part of Angela’s mind took over and she stared him in the face. The man tried to avert his face, but it was too late. The sun’s golden rays illuminated the stranger’s handsome face. It was not the bushy eyebrows, sultry lips or aquiline nose that caught her attention as she was momentarily basked in his loveliness. It was those iridescent eyes that were brimming with confusion as they stared at her.

10 Part III: Destiny Simon stared at the woman in front of him, wondering why his illusion making abilities did not work this time. After acquiring his abilities he started using the vintage eyeglasses to hide them because one glance at them and someone will start experiencing nightmarish visions. He released her hands, and she rubbed them to ease the pain. She picked up the vintage sunglasses that fell down due to their scuffle and gave them to him. He took them, stammering as he said, “Thank you, but why are you here?” Instead of answering, she pointed at his bandaged arm—a remembrance of his early rage at the bathroom. “What happened to them?” Simon turned his face away, hiding the red that was already spreading in his tanned face. “Please leave, this is private property…” His voice is faltering, what the hell? He felt her hands on his. “I am a nurse, show me where you keep your medicines.” Simon is blushing as Angela leads him inside his house. As they entered, their footsteps made a rustling sound in the dust covered floor. But all Simon can hear is the erratic, drum-like beating of his own heart. “I thought they only had one son,” Angela said, pertaining to Simon’s parents, as she put Betadine on Simon’s wrist. “It’s a long story,” Simon said, grimacing at the pain. “Sorry for what I did to your arms.” Angela finished wrapping his arms in bandages before

11 resuming the conversation. “This?” She raised her arm and smiled at him, “this is nothing. I have had worse injuries before. Anyways, I gotta go, sorry for trespassing.” She stood up and turned to go. “Wait, will I see you again?” Silence lingered between the two of them. Simon lowered his gaze, ashamed of what came out of his mouth seconds ago. He heard the sound of footsteps towards him, and when he raised his still blushing face, he saw Angela holding a pen. She scribbled something in the bandages in his arm. “Find me here, if you want to tell me your story.” With that, the lovely trespasser was gone and time stopped for Simon as he stared at the address she wrote down. Of course I will find her! Simon decided as a smile made its way in his face. That night, for what seemed like an eternity, Angela dreamed again. She dreamt about the sad boy who was lost in the cornfield. He is still lost, and she somewhat found her younger self watching him from afar. But this time, the boy was smiling as he walked towards Angela’s direction. And she welcomed him with open arms, the two of them leaving the field hand in hand—unmindful of the chaos that surrounds them. He has found home, at last.

12 Wow, chiks ni Nixon De Villa Dibuho ni Angelo Mendenilla Ipinanganak ako para maging maganda. ‘Yun lang. Mula sa unang liwanag na sumalubong sa akin ay ito na ang katotohanang bilin ng mundo. Kailangan kong lamnan ang tiyan ng pagkaing inihahain nila para makuha ang perpektong pigura na nakakaakit sa marami—malusog pero hindi mataba, petite lang, hindi mapayat. Wala naman akong choice, hindi ko rin naman kaya dumiskarte para sa sariling pagkain sa ganitong edad. Ito ang patakaran sa ampunan. Hindi ako sigurado kung akma bang tawagin itong ganoon, dahil wala namang nangangalaga sa amin nang ayos. Hindi na lang ako nagrereklamo, siguro ay dahil matagal ko nang tinanggap na ito ang tadhana ng mga tulad kong walang nakilalang magulang. Pare-pareho lang kami. At pare- pareho naman kaming makakaalis dito sa tamang panahon. “Ganito na lang ba talaga tayo?” sambit ni Rosa habang pinanonood ang paglipas ng bagyo mula sa bintana. “Ilang beses mo na ‘yang naitanong. Nakukulitan na ako sa’yo ha,” pabiro kong sagot, na may halo ring katotohanan dahil para s’yang sirang plaka na hindi rin naman marunong makinig. “Marami akong pangarap sa buhay. Marami akong gustong puntahan. Gusto ko rin makasali sa mga palaro. At alam mo ba, gusto ko na putulin ang dila ko dahil sobrang nakakaumay na ang binibigay nila sa’tin. Gusto ko rin makatikim ng masarap,” isang naratibong saulo na namin mula sa kanya. “Isa pa, napakababaw ng ganitong buhay. Humihinga tayo para sa palakpak at halakhak at titig ng mga taong hindi naman natin kilala, mga taong wala ring pakialam sa’tin bukod sa panlabas nating hitsura,” dagdag pa ng kaibigan kong ambisosya. Pero tama naman siya. Hindi lang ako, alam kong karamihan sa amin ay iniisip rin ang sinasabi ni Rosa, wala lamang kaming lakas ng loob na maging bukas dito tulad niya. Masyado lang siguro kaming duwag para kontrahin ang daloy ng buhay na tahimik

13 naming tinatanggap, tinitiis, at nilalakbay sa bawat araw ng paghahangad ng perpeksyon. Tama siya, ganito kami. “Nga pala, anong kulay gusto mo?” tanong ko sa kanya para malihis ang seryosong usapan. Nakakalungkot ang ulan, ayoko na dagdagan. “‘Wag mo nang itanong, sila rin naman pipili kung anong bagay sa buhok natin. Depende siguro sa kung saan ginaganahan ang mga parokyano,” ani niya. “Ako, gusto ko ay kulay kahel. Para kakulay ng langit habang unti-unting nagtatago sa dilim ang araw. Ang drama ‘di’ba? O ‘di kaya ay berde, parang luntiang mga dahon ng halaman sa init ng tagsibol. P’wede rin ang rosas, o kayumanggi, o pula. O dilaw na lang para mukhang natural,” sambit ko sa kanya. “Kahit pa mukha kang rainbow, pababayaan ka lang naman mamatay sa lamig sa gabi ‘pag nakalimutan. O sa gutom ‘pag wala na maipakain sa’yo. Kung malas ka, baka ikaw pa ipakain sa ibang hayop nila,” sagot niya. Pumasok na lang ako sa kulungan na mapula ang pisngi, hindi sa sampal ng kamay dahil wala naman kaming ganoon, kundi sa sampal ng katotohanan na ito na lang talaga kami. Mga sisiw sa fiesta, ipinanganak para maging maganda. ‘Yun lang.

14 I guess it would take a shooting star on bright daylight, to fulfill my wish of being locked behind bars in the selfish gates, I’d like to call freedom. -Jane Therese Banaag Photo | Anne Lorraine Bautista

15 Hand me the bow to shoot arrows by Angel Joy Liwag farther than the gap between us now, for I have grown weary of aiming at the center in the unpredictable wind of a hundred moods —of a boy who vanished from his frail sentiments. You were too busy getting lost in the drift, creating your own rules for fun as you fired our nocks from the ground to graze the yellow ten-pointer in mid-circle. You were just so careless, keen on the target but never with yourself while we pretended to play each other’s Cupid— but we were both bad at it. And for a moment, as you looked away, all your words dropped to the ground like broken dart pieces that we’ve already used up. We hurried as the breeze gets stronger— and there is no umbrella for clouded thoughts as I wait for them to become heavy rain It’s funny how we turned to be the wind ourselves —existing but never truly felt, never truly held, unless we poured our hearts out.

16 Israel Martin de Chavez

17

18 Banal na pagtatanghal ni Nixon De Villa Dibuho ni Angelo Mendenilla Luluhod sa harap ng krus. Hahalik sa sahig ang gasgas na mga tuhod, ‘sing kupas ng orasyon— tuwing tutula sa mamang ang balat ay kahoy, nakatulala sa walang-kibo niyang pagyuko. Pipikit, sa saliw ng musikang panlangit at aasang sa milagrong pagmulat ay pinakawalan ko na ang huling himno ng gintong kampana sa pawisang palad, at ligtas na sa titig ng mga santo sa dingding na takot lamang ang ambag. Titingalain, ang pintadong mural sa kisame na tanging saksi sa mga milagrong nakakubli sa ilalim ng musmos na ngiti. Sapagkat madilim ang mundo, taliwas sa kinang ng sutlang nakayapos sa mapagpanggap na mga balikat at ulo. Magpapaalam ang liwanag sa langit, at mula sa pumatak na puting kapa ay babangon ang demonyong mahusay magtimpla ng agua bendita, upang mangaral na sumuko at sumama; muling babagsak ang kurtina hudyat ng pagsasara ng sagradong palabas. Oras na para sa hating-gabing misa, luluhod— ngunit hindi sasamba.

19 Ugoy ng duyan ni Faith Valen Villanueva Dibuho ni Marion Macatangay Ang dilim ng paligid. Wala akong maaninag at pakiramdam ko ang lagkit na ng aking katawan sa sobrang siksik at init sa loob. Sala sa lamig, sala naman sa init. Hay buhay, parang life. Aminin niyo, hindi lang ako ito? ‘Yung kinakatok ang pinto kapag naiingayan sa mga tao sa labas o hindi kaya naman ay may iginagalaw na hindi ko naman gusto at maaari ring ikapamahak ng mga ugat at kalamnan ko rito dahil sa makitid at pagkalagkit-lagkit na likidong maya’t-maya nang pumatak sa aking balat. Hindi naman ako pinaglihi sa panunuod ng war themed movie ng Nanay ko pero hindi ko pa naman nasisilip ang labas ay naiirita na ako sa mga taong maya’t maya na nanghimas ng aking likuran. Minsan may itinatapat pa sa akin na cassette, baka naman daw kasi makalahi pa ng manganganta si Inay sa aking paglabas.

20 Hindi pa kasi ako maaaring lumabas rito hangga’t hindi ko pa nakukumpleto ang nakatakdang buwan ng pananatili ko sa sinapupunan ng aking ina. Medyo nakakalungkot kasi mag-isa lang naman ako nililibang ko na lang ang aking sarili sa pakikinig sa kaganapan sa labas. Minsan naiipit ako sa reyalidad na gusto ko na marinig ang pinag-uusapan nila, ‘yung mga mukha n’ung pasimpleng dumudungaw sa akin habang ako ay namamahinga. Narinig ko nga sa balita na sa bawat pagdating ay may inilalatag na pulang karpet na para bang mala-Hollywood star ang datingan ng paglabas ng katulad kong matagal na nakatago. May ilang buwan pa ang kailangan kong bunuin para makalaya sa makipot na kulungang ito. Ika nga ng matatanda e, marami pa daw akong kakaining bigas Baka mamaya madisgrasya at matiktikan pa ako sa labas, mahirap na. Atsaka ayoko namang mahirapan ang mga mahal ko sa buhay. Nanggaling na ako sa pira-piraso, gusto ko na maging buo. Ayoko na bumalik sa dating ako. Ang tagal ko rin kayang nakipaglaban at sinisid ko pa talaga hanggang dulo para lang ako ang manalo. Okay lang ‘yun, ilang buwan na lang naman ang aking bubunuin at masisilayan ko na ang labas. Maririnig ko na rin ang hele ni Inay, at maisusuot ang mga inihanda niyang damit para aking pagdating . Sarap kaya sa feeling na alam mong may naghihintay sa’yo sa paglabas mo. ‘Yung nakaabang sila sa magiging pagbabago mo. Kaunting kembot na lang rito sa loob, makakalaya na rin ako. Matapos ang ilang araw kong paghihintay, isang gabi parang hindi maganda ang panahon sa dako paroon. Walang patid na tumitibok ang puso ko habang humahangos at pinipilit na huminga nang maayos. Habang tumatagal ang pananatili ko rito, pakitid na rin nang pakitid ang kulungan na ito. Kumokonti ang espasyo. Parang ramdam ko ang paghihirap ng mga taong nakapaligid sa akin at

21 pagtitiyaga na ako ay makalabas. Naambunan na rin ako sa loob ng parang maliliit na butil na mula sa labas, ang tawag yata nila rito ay ulan, ngunit tanong ko lamang, masakit ba ang ulan kapag lumalapat sa balat? Ang init sa pakiramdam. Para akong naiipit sa loob, mukhang oras na nga yata ng aking kalayaan. Sa gitna ng dilim, nakakita ako ng liwanag. Feeling ko, This is it! Ito na talaga ang pinakahihintay kong araw. Tama sila, kapag panahon mo na, itutulak ka na ng hangin palabas. Hindi ka na makakandado ngunit pihado luha naman ang aking hatid sa aking paglabas sa bagong mundo. Mami-miss ko ang kulungang ito. Ang masikip, minsan ay yumuyogyog na hawla, at ang minsanang paghagulhol ng aking Ina. Nakakaramdam na ako ng hapdi mula sa sinag ng liwanag. Ang paghihinagpis ni Ina mailabas lamang ako sa yungib na minsan na ring naging kanlungan ko. Ito na Ina iyong una at huling beses na pag-iyak sa hirap at sakit dahil paparating na ako. Nandito na ak-- Malaya na ako pero pansamantala muna sigurong nakasuklob. At least, hindi na sa kulungan kundi sa isang kulob na kumot na ibabaon sa habambuhay na limot—ang lugar na inilaan ni Inay para sa aking pagdating. “Pasensya na, ‘Nak. Hindi pa ako handa,” bungad ng aking ina. Sa halip na paghalik sa aking namamalat na pisnge, tangan mo naman ako sa’yong mga bisig ngunit nakasaklob. Walang senyales ng buhay. Walang liwanag at may kahanggan. Humahangos at iika-ika kang humahakbang papalayo dahil sa natamo mong sariwang sugat. “Patawarin niyo po, Ako. Diyos ko,” paulit-ult kong naririnig ang humihinang bulong mo papalayo.

22 There is beauty in carrying the weight of your home amid the memoirs of lost footprints and madness. -Faith Valen Villanueva Photo | Francis Aaron Magpile

23 Gerard Zairus Gupit All-nighter by Kathryn Rae Custodio

24 The sun probably teleported into my room, or just outside my window, because it’s goddamn bright! Has every object in this world suddenly been sprayed with a thin layer of some sort of reflective coating? I close my eyes while waiting for them to adjust to the unusual light and fumble my hands over the bed for my phone. 2:17 pm. What. The. Heck. It’s less than three hours before the library closes, and I have to hurry there so I can use the free internet services. As I put on my last clean hoodie, I smell something acrid. My drunkard neighbors probably made a mess again next door and the smell is going in through these battered windows. They were singing loudly last night with off-beat voices and made-up lyrics. They probably added a puking party after that. Gross. I gathered the scattered photocopied pages and paper sheets littered with my almost unidentifiable handwriting from the table. Next to them is the ruins of a half-empty coffee mug. Houseflies were getting too curious, so I threw the mug in the sink with the other coffee mugs waiting to be washed. I’ll wash them when I get home. I think to myself knowing that I probably won’t. I’d rather spend more time trying to finish all these pending reports and a satanically demanding thesis. As I thought, everything really got an unnecessary upgrade of reflective coating. I can only squint as I walk outside. I went straight to the comfort room as I got into the university library to splash some water on my face. The bright light outside messed with my eyes and it took some time to adjust to the indoor lighting. I thought I sprayed a shit ton of perfume on my inner clothes earlier but why can’t I smell it now? Guess I got scammed with that bottle of perfume, huh? Could this day really get any worse? There’s no use in whining so I get straight to business. I occupied the vacant computer by the furthest corner so no one can bother me while I do my research. With the pandemic and all, it’s a blessing that the entire library is quieter than before. Earphones on, hands on the keyboard, eyes focused on the monitor. I spend the next hours being productive. Not because I want to but because I have to. It costs a shit ton of money to

25 go to university and I gotta do my best if I want to get out of this poverty hell. Study well, graduate on time, get a job, earn enough money for a peaceful retirement. I feel tired, more so than usual. My hands feel like jelly and I fumble for the mouse. I also think I dozed off several times, so I barely made progress on my thesis. It doesn’t help that the keyboard here—or the entire computer set, really—must have been poorly maintained so I have to hit the keys harder. I let out a long sigh. It felt like I’ve been holding my breath since I got here. One of the library staff stared at me. I get it, okay? I look horrible. It’s been weeks since I had a proper sleep, so I could very well rival a panda with these bags under my eyes. I haven’t taken a bath since yesterday either and my clothes are all wrinkled. I must have looked like a zombie in one of those low- budget films. The librarian switched off the lights in the reading area. I looked around and noticed I’m the only one left in the internet room. Time to continue this work at home. I just hope my phone’s data can last me until tomorrow at least. I went to the usual fishball stall I go to before I head home but the tindero is ignoring me. He has his back to the stall, talking to his lover on the phone. This is annoying. Whatever. I pick up a few fish balls and kikiam and leave my payment beside the paper cups. Weird. I think as I walk home. I can’t seem to taste the food. I can’t smell the vinegar either. Did I catch the virus? Shit. Gods, no. My tastebuds are just asleep. Yeah. I distract myself by going through all the work I still have to do when I get home. Review all the references I got. Write down my own conclusion from all of those. Cross-reference all the facts. Check the messy draft my thesis groupmate sent me. I can never really understand how students make it to college without knowing how to write a proper essay or how to submit a paper without inciting an explosion of grammatical errors and misspellings.

26 I unlock my door and let out a loud grunt as my f*cked up room greets me heartlessly. It’s been weeks since I cleaned and there’s dirty clothes everywhere. I head to the table and set down my bag, my papers, my earphones, my phone. I wish I could also put down all these academic responsibilities. I take a moment to decide if I should grab a yellow or red bottle of Sting, the only resident of my desolate fridge. Just like last night, I pop a caffeine tablet into my mouth. I happened to find it at a pharmacy a few months ago and it really helps me stay awake to finish my studies. Just like last night, and almost every other night, I’ll have to stay up late to meet deadlines and get decent grades. I close my eyes as I walk to the window for some air. I reach the window and step into some sort of slush. What the hell?! Who puked in my room?! Traces of vomit spill from the window and onto the floor. My mind was quick to blame the drunkards next door, but did they really get around back just to puke into my window? My heart beats faster as I follow the vomit trail to the bed. I think I see a brown-ish red substance mixed with the vomit. There’s also a body (?) on the bed. Is that blood? Is that a person on my bed? How did they get in here? When? I search my memories of last night and my heart quickens even more as I approach my bed. After I took a caffeine tablet, I took a sip of coffee and stared at the sky from the window. I remember feeling nauseous. I remember struggling to the bed to get my phone. I remember… I went around the bed to look at the person on it. This person has my face.

27 Genesis Art and Poem by Arielle Dane Adan

28 I. Writing fantasies There’s a cradle in between the spaces of you and I where nameless avenues stood, waiting impatiently to be baptized. A somewhere only we know, built in the after image of a sky full of stars —we’ve mapped out together but million miles apart. II. Waking up I was so enamored with the night, with how easy it is to find all the trapped words snuggled in between our twisting seams and folds; because in the dark, we are bold. But I opened my eyes when you said, let there be light. Bite marks on poisoned parts, fallen fruit on cursed grounds, oceans grew where valleys stood —I’m a million more miles away from you. III. Wayfinding Went adrift but not anymore, guided by our stars once more. I came back home even if the curtains were tightly drawn. But soon enough, the windows will be open wide unafraid from the outside, we’re welcoming the dawn breaking in. Fearless from getting lost, because following you is not the least thing I could do. I can now build a world not just for us two.

29 Minsan ko nang ninais ang magkatawang-tao sa hulma ni Ina, mula sa kanyang mapungay na mga mata hanggang sa banayad niyang kurba. Panay ang kanyang galaw sa himig ng sankaterbang gawain, habang pinapawi ng pawis ang namumuong inis sa kanyang mukha. Siesta ang kanyang tanging pahinga, ngunit ito ang aking pagkakataon upang lasapin ang gabok sa laruan at dungisan ang aking naninilaw na kamisa. Kailanma’y hindi ako naging taya sa habulan, o mahagilap kahit sa tagu-taguan; at paborito ring pagkaisahan ng mga kalaro, kaya naman tuwing sila ay mapipikon ay tanging ngalan ni Ina ang kanilang ibabaoy. May anak raw siya ngunit walang asawa ‘pagkat siya mismo ang nag-habla. kung tutuusin ay ako rin daw ay maysala bilang bitbit ko ang mukha ni Ama. Muling yayakapin ng dilim ang dapithapon, at ang yabag ng aking mga kalaro’y uurong papalayo. Masisilayan ko si Ina’ng naalimpungatan, waring hinahanap ang aking anyo. Kasabay ng aking pagtakbo sa direksyon ni Ina, namuo ang mga ngiti sa kanyang mga mata. Magkahulma man ang mukha namin ni ama, ay magkaibang eksena ang aming makikita ‘pagkat si Ina’ng lunod noon sa luha ay namumukadkad ngayon sa saya. ‘Kaytagal rin nga palang nabilanggo ni Ina sa higpit ng mga bisig at tigas ng kamao ni Ama. Ex-con ni Angel Joy Liwag Dibuho ni Angelo Mendenilla

30 How could I step out from a place that just keeps on holding me back? And if I did have the courage to escape, will getting out of this box means stepping into a bigger one? -Arielle Dane Adan Photo | Elaine Mapagdalita

31 Nang minsang tumapak ang isang hampaslupa sa sementadong siyudad ni Jane Therese Banaag Princess Allyssa Plotado

32 I. Damn. Muli na naman naputikan ang vintage pair ng Levi’s na lagi kong suot. Hindi kasi nag- iingat sa pagmamaneobra ng mamahalin niyang sasakyan itong bespren kong Amerikano. Palibhasa’t pinipili pang makipagpaligsahan sa sekyu sa pagbabantay ng pagmamay-aring Starbucks kahit uugod-ugod na makasulyap lamang sa mga dalagitang nagpapalipas ng hangover sa kanyang magarang kapehan. Ngunit bago pa man maging ArmaLite ang bibig ko sa sobrang dismaya, inunahan na ako ng isang lalaking tila pInagbagsakan ng langit at lupa sa lakas ng kanyang sigaw. “Punyeta naman! Mag-iisang buwan pa lang itong Raptor ko,” bwelta ng isang lalaking tila isang menor-de-edad pa lamang base sa balingkinitan niyang pangangatawan at uniporme niyang pang-hayskul. “The heck? You’re lucky isang buwan pa lang car mo. I only had this BMW three fuck*ng weeks ago pa lang tapos you’ll fuck*ng put a scratch on it? Pay for it, loser!” tugon naman ng nakabanggaan niyang balu-baluktot na ang Tagalog ay iisa lang din yata ang alam na mura.

33 Nagmistulang Korte Suprema ang kahabaan ng España Boulevard sa palitan ng kaniya-kaniyang dahilan at pasahan ng sisi ng mga aroganteng kabataan na itinuturing na laro ang karera ng buhay sa mga konkretong kalsada ng Maynila. Sa kanilang mga kokote, akala nila ay sila lang siguro ang tao sa mundo—o ‘di kaya, dahil sa haba ng kanilang bangayan ay ‘di nila naisip ang mga motoristang naiipit sa trapikong dulot ng kanilang kayabangan Ngunit paano nga ba naman tatatak sa kanilang isipan ang kalagayan ng mga taong hindi naman nila kasing-antas? Mga taong ang iniida ay hindi mga galos ng mamahalin nilang sasakyan, kung hindi mga galos na mamahalin ang sagot na lunas. Mga taong kagaya ko. ‘Di tulad ng daan libong mga sasakyan na nakikipagsapalaran sa trapiko ng Maynila, nandito na ako sa punto kung saan wala nang balakid sa daang aking tinatahak—saan man ito magsisimula o kung magtatapos man ito. II. Sakit na walang lunas kung maituturing ang init ng panahon na dumadapo sa mga konkretong pader ng makalumang Intramuros. Bukod kasi sa mga nakikipagtaguan na mga waiting shed, nagiging lata ng sardinas na rin ang distrito na ito sa kaliwa’t kanang mga paaralan na itinatayo sa bawat sulok ng tinaguriang Napapderang Lungsod. Ang dapat sanang init na sa kayumanggi kong balat lamang manunuot ay umakyat na sa aking ulo dahil sa grupo ng mga kababaihang nagkukumahog tulungan ang kaibigang walang tigil ang bahing. “Kanina pa ‘yan, girl. Sure ka bang allergy lang ‘yan?” nag- aalalang tanong ng isang babaeng ni-ruler ata ang tuwid na buhok. “Hala. Baka ito na ‘yong sinasabi nilang coronavirus? ‘Yong bagong kumakalat na sakit galing China?” singit naman ng isa pa niyang kaibigan habang nag-aalangan lumapit sa kaibigan nilang may sakit.

34 “OMG! Nakakamatay raw ‘yon sabi ng family doctor namin!” bwelta naman niya. Habang agaw-pansin nilang pinupuno ng hindi kanais-nais na mga tsismisan ang kahabaan ng nangangalawang na mga haligi ng Mapua, aking napagtanto na maswerte akong hindi ko kailanman iindahin ang samu’t-saring mga kaartehan sa kalusugan na kinakaharap ng mga tisay na kolehiyalang ito. ‘Di tulad ng mga natatanging pook pangkasaysayan, na bantay sarado ng mga sinaunang kawal sa loob ng Intramuros, kahit ang pinaka malubhang sakit na inimbento ng mapanlinlang na siyentipiko ay hindi uubra sa katawan kong nakasubok na ng pambihirang gutom, malubhang mga galos, at ang lumilipad kong temperaturang dulot ng nagsasalungat na matinding init at lamig. III. Nagsisimula nang magkalampagan ang mga roll-up doors ng karamihan sa mga pwesto ng masisikip na eskinita dito sa Divisoria. Hudyat ito na muli ko na namang masosolo ang paraiso hindi lamang ng mga kuripot na mga Manileño ngunit pati na rin ng mga gastadorang mga probinsyana. Sa karamihan, Divisoria ang tokador ng Maynila—isang antigong lalagyan na napupuno ng samu’t-saring abubot, kasuotan, at palamuti na makakamit sa murang presyo. Ngunit para sa akin, isa ring malaking hapagkainan ang lugar na ito— ngunit nagbubukas lamang sa pagsapit ng madaling araw. Pinauuna kong umalis ang mga tauhan sa paborito kong karinderya upang ako’y masinsinang makapili sa kanilang iniwang mga putahe para sa akin na siyang nakasilid sa malalaking drum at may karatulang “Biodegradable”. Ngunit laking dismaya ko nang makita kong iisang ulam lang ang laman ng aking personal refrigerator—java rice ala kaning lamig. Habang umuugong ang alarm clock sa aking sikmura, nakipagsabayan dito ang tunog ng isang cellphone na siyang

35 bumalot sa bibihirang tahimik na mga sulok ng Divisoria. “Anak, pagpasensyahan mo na… Louis Vitton ng Divisoria lang talaga inabot ng pera ko,” malambing na saad ng lalaking may kausap sa kanyang telepono. “Babawi na lang si Papa sa ika-19th birthday mo, ‘nak… Ginabi na rin ako paghahanap nitong pinakamagandang Class A… Sorry talaga, ‘nak. Alam mo namang na-bankrupt ang bangko ni Papa,” maya-maya pa ay napansin kong lumuluha na ang lalaki sa lalim ng kanyang mata at pagkayukot ng kupas kupas niyang polo Sa sobrang taimtim ng pagtitig ko sa mamang nasa harap ko, hindi ko napansin na papasugod na siya sa akin. “Huy! Anong gagawin mo dito? Manghoholdap ka, ‘no? Ipapa-tanod kita, umalis ka dito!” sunod-sunod na pagbabanta ng lalaking iyon. Dali-dali naman akong lumiko sa kabilang eskinita kung saan puro mga gamit pampaaralan ang binebenta ng mga may p’westong tindera. Sa palagay ko’y mabuti namang tao ang lalaking pinagbintangan pa akong mangho-holdap kahit mas uso ang suot kong ripped jeans sa kanyang makalumang pantalon. Marahil ay nababalot lamang siya ng samu’t-saring suliranin at gastusin sa anak niyang mukhang nasanay na masunod sa luho. ‘Di tulad ng mga presyo ng mga bilihin sa pinakasikat na merkado sa Lungsod ng Maynila, wala nang pagtataas-baba ang ikot ng aking kapalaran dahil naabot ko na ang hindi makita-kitang dulo ng bilog nating mundo. IV. Hindi mabura ang ngiti sa aking labi habang tinatahak ko ang maingay at magulong kalye ng Morayta. Huwebes ngayon kaya alam kong inuwi ng anak ni Mrs. Chan ang kanilang mapangahas na askal. Isang senyales na wala akong kaagaw na boarder sa madalas kong tulugan na dog cage sa tabi ng kainan ni Mrs. Chan. Habang hinahanap ang aking antok, napatitig ako sa mga sumisilip na mga bituin sa pagitan ng bubong na rehas ng aking

36 tinutulugan. Sabi nila’y kapag lumagpas ng sampu ang bilang ng mga sumisibol na bituin sa kalangitan ay malayong bumadya ang ulan; dahilan upang mapangiti na naman ako sa tuwa dahil mapapasarap ang aking tulog sa kabila ng walang patawad na bolyum ng karaoke machine sa katapat na KTV Bar ng Dimsum House ni Mrs. Chan. Akin pang naaalala ang apat na pagkakataong ipinasara ang KTV Bar na ito sa hindi ko mawari-waring dahilan. Akin na lang namamataang lumalabas mula sa tatlong palapag na bar ang mga babaeng kahit wala na halos saplot ay mga mukha nila ang lubusang tinatakpan. Bukod sa kanila ay ineeskortan din ng mga pulis palabas ang may-aring balbas saradong Arabo na medyo may edad na. Hindi ko rin maintindihan kung paano niya nabuhay muli ang bar sa mahigpit na pagkakakandado dito ng mga pulis. Ngunit, kung iisipin ay wala nga talagang buhay ang Morayta kung wala ang Arabo at ang bar niyang ito. Ibang klaseng ngiti ang sumisilay sa labi ng mga kalalakihang estudyanteng inaabot ng madaling araw doon. Bakas rin ang kaparehong kasiyahan sa mukha ng mga babaeng pumuputok sa kolorete ang mga mukha habang isa-isang binibilang ang bigkis bigkis na salapi. Hindi mga ngiti ang kaakibat ng mga awitin sa KTV Bar matapos itong maungusan ng tunog ng mga umuugong na wangwang na nagmumula sa paparating na mga sasakyan ng mga pulis. Kaparehong eksena na naman ang sinubaybayan ng nagkukumpulang mga nagising na boarders sa likod ng Morayta— ang walang katapusang pag-aresto sa abusado at ganid na Arabaong ito. ‘Di tulad ng mga pabigla-biglang pagsibol ng samu’t-saring ingay sa namamahingang Morayta, wala nang kahit na ano pang sorpresa ang bubuo o bubuwag sa aking pamumuhay. ‘Di tulad ng matandang Arabo o ng mga babaeng walang saplot, ang konsepto ng pagkakaroon ng salapi ay patingi-tingi lang dapat sa aking perspektibo.

37 V. Dahil sa gulong dulot ng paghuli sa may-ari ng KTV Bar sa Morayta, muli na naman akong napadpad sa masisikip na kalye ng España Boulevard. Pero dagdag sa nana ng trapiko na nakabukol sa bawat kalsada ay ang hindi maawat na pagtaas ng baha. Kanya-kanyang diskarte ang mga estudyante, negosyante, empleyado, pati na rin ang mga drayber sa paglusong sa baha- bahang perwisyo dulot ng malakas na buhos ng ulan. Mayroong nagpapabuhat sa kani-kanilang nobyo, mayroong pinipiling pumara ng mga taxi na abusado kung maningil sa pamasahe. At mayroon rin mga katulad ko na walang ibang p’wedeng gawin kung hindi isisid ang mga paa sa tubig baha. Balak ko sanang umakyat sa UST Overpass upang makaiwas sa mas malalang baha sa mga kalapit na imprastuktura ng unibersidad. Nagsisiksikan na ang mga estudyante huwag lamang mamantsahan ang namumuti nilang mga uniporme. Sa dami ng tao ay nahihirapan na rin akong ibalanse ang aking sarili habang umaakyat sa madulas na hakbang ng hagdanan. May kataasan ang susunod na hakbang sapagkat ito na ang mismong overpass. Kamuntikan na rin akong madulas kaya bigla akong mapakapit sa isa sa mga kalapit kong estudyante. Pero bago pa man magtagpo ang aking paa at ang palapag ay isang kamao na ang sumalubong sa akin. “Shet kang dukha ka! Hihipuan mo pa girlfriend ko,” sigaw ng mestisong kanina lamang ay kaakbay ang babaeng nakapitan ko sa balikat. “Naku, hindi ko naman sinasa—” hihingi na sana ako ng paumanhin pero isang mas malakas na suntok ang kanyang binitawan, dahilan upang mawalan na naman ako ng balanse at ang mga estudyanteng kanina’y nagkakadadumahog makaakyat ay tumatabi sa gilid upang makaiwas sa katawan kong dire- diretsong nahuhulog sa overpass. Habang patuloy ang pagbuhos ng ulan, ang mga patak nito’y diretsong tumatama sa sariwang sugat sa aking mukha dahilan upang ako’y mapahiyaw sa kirot. Ngunit walang laban ang hiyaw

38 na ito sa lakas ng pambabastos ng mga kaibigan ng lalaking sumuntok sa akin. “Nice one, lods,” puri ng isa pang mestiso na para bang isang bayani ang kaibigan niyang inuuna ang paggamit ng mga kamao niya kaysa sa utak. Mukha bang uunahin ko ang kamanyakan kaysa makaiwas sa baha? “Resbak, resbak,” gatong ng pumapaalkpak ng kaibigan sa puti niyang t-shirt na may tatak na Never Give Up. Akmang tatayo na sana ako sa aking pagkakabagsak nang salubungin ang palutang-lutang kong katawan sa baha ng isang kotse na ang gulong ay kakaiba ang laki. “Puta, kung kailan naman bahang-baha. Hindi ka kasi natingin, pare,” buwelta ng lalaking nakaupo sa tabi ng drayber. “Hayaan mo na. Hindi naman tayo kakasuhan niyan,” pagpigil ng drayber sa kaibigang bababa na sana ng sasakyan. Habang humaharurot palayo ang magara at higanteng kotse na iyon, ang kaninang nanaig na kantyaw mula sa paligid ay napalitan naman ng kabi-kabilang bulungan na medyo naririnig ko pa sa kabila ng pagdanak ng dugo sa aking tagiliran at tubig baha na bumabara sa aking tainga. “Hindi ba anak ni Mayor Morena iyong nakabangga,” tanong ni Aling Marites, ang landlady ng dormitoryo sa tabi ng overpass. “Hala oo nga! Buti na lang iyan lang ang nadisgrasya niya. Kawawa naman ang ama niya kung nagkataon,” paliwanag naman ng kanyang kumare. Sa kaharian ng España kung saan ang katunggali ng sikat ng araw ay agos ng ulan, walang pinipiling antas sa buhay ang baha; pero may iba talaga na nakakalamang dahil matibay ang panangga nila sa agos nito—ang kani-kanilang pribilehiyo. At habang naliligo ako sa sarili kong dugo at naghahabol ng sarili kong paghinga, inaasam ko na dadalhin na lang ako nito sa hukay.

39

40 Pop-Corny Art and Story by Clark Alduz Viray When I was around seven years old, my father used to take me on long morning walks in the old park near our apartment. As a young boy whose only happiness is spending as much time as possible in the comfort of his bed, I would always grumble when he would come to my room, open the venetian blinds and let the much dreaded sunlight enter my room. He would wake me up by tickling me, and then ruffle my hair while telling me that I am “his little prince.” After eating breakfast, burnt toast and eggs for me, and fried rice mixed with whatever leftover takeout we had for last night, for my father, the two of us will then leave our rented room hand in hand. He will whistle an old tune that only he seemed to enjoy while I sulked and grumbled because he woke me up too early. But after a few minutes, that childish tantrum will be replaced by wide eyed astonishment as we sit in one of the old benches in the park, sipping our morning drinks, a carton of milk for me and a cup of steaming coffee for my Father. During those times, he would tell me one of his timeless fairytale stories as we watched the morning scenery unfold before our eyes. Sometimes, my father will treat me with a pack of those cheap popcorn they used to sell in plastic bags. Most of the time, my attention will linger from the half eaten treat towards my father’s face, as if by turning away from him, I will miss the story he is telling me.

41 In his tales, he is always the valiant knight in shining armor, saving my mother from the monsters and villains that dared to separate the two of them. Needless to say, my childhood was a memorable one. It was filled with images of clashing swords, fire breathing dragons and alluring fairies. He will then accompany me to my school, and later, my classmates and I will form a small circle with me at the center as I retell one of my father’s stories, feeling proud at the admiration in the faces of my young peers. As I grow older, the park visits become less frequent. My father got caught up in the busy world of the city and I, on the other hand, became engrossed in finding new friends from my age group. As time passed by, a rift formed between the two of us. The room we are renting, which was once echoing with banters, became as silent as a mausoleum. He passed away last year. They say that he did not see the speeding car during the torrential rain as he tried to cross the street. It was a small funeral, with not much of our relatives attending—not even my mother. I have long known that she has a new family. I once tried to contact her, but I croaked and choked on my words. How could I tell her that all these years, a young boy, who is now a man, is missing his mother’s embrace? Sometimes, when I wake up early and I have no work, I will visit the old park and sit down on our favorite bench. I will watch the sun slowly rising on the horizon, imagining that my father is still there with me, holding my hands and telling me one of his stories. But everything is not the same. The stories seemed to be bland when I could only hear them in my head. I miss my father’s face, his comical narration of his stories, and the way his eyes widened when he got carried away with one of his fictitious scenarios. And sometimes, when I take a bite of the popcorn that I buy, they do not taste the same as the ones I ate when I was just a young boy with no care in the world. They taste bitter. Maybe because at times, my tears will just fall and mingle with them. I miss him.